Contingency Plan
by shoreleave
Summary: A simple salt-and-burn gone wrong takes John away from his sons, leaving a 16-year-old Dean and 12-year-old Sam suddenly on their own. While the boys struggle to come to terms with their situation, John's unfinished hunt provides more sinister challenges. Pre-series, gen. Written for the 2013 Supernatural Big Bang.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **

This is my first Supernatural fic. As I devoured the episodes and fell in love with the characters, I became fascinated with the complex and conflict-ridden relationship between John and his boys, Specifically, wondered what led up to the rift between them that sent Sam off to Stanford and left Dean with his father, despite all his misgivings. Also, I couldn't let go of the idea that the things that the boys seemed to take for granted as part of their lifestyle, like digging up graves and carrying around all that weaponry, were downright _illegal_, not to mention pretty demented, to the uninitiated onlooker. And then... what would happen to the boys if John wasn't around for a time? How would they survive? Add to that a nice, creepy urban legend from the '90s and we're good to go.

One more thing: I know that fanon accepts the idea that Bobby had a long-standing relationship with John and the boys, from the time they were young. My take on that is a little different, as you'll see. (Or: What if the boys _didn't_ know Bobby until much later? How would that relationship develop, then?) But it's all canon-compliant in the end.

Beta'd by Professor-Fiona-Fawkes. And thanks also to Still Waters, who looked over the h/c sections for medical accuracy.

The story is complete and will be posted in seven installments over the next week. Written for the 2013 Supernatural Big Bang.

**Warnings: **Violence and gore. Underage M/M dubcon (male prostitution). Medical situations. And angst, obviously. You are forewarned.

* * *

**Contingency Plan ****Part One**

_**April 1995. Elkhorn, Wisconsin.**_

Dean hated digging up graves.

They'd been at the cemetery for over an hour now, taking turns with the shovel. Dean was four feet down in the grave, working in a steady rhythm: pushing the shovel into the dirt, stamping on it with his boot to force it in deeper, and heaving it over his shoulder. His father loomed above him, holding the flashlight.

"Get the lead out, Dean. I still want to get a few hours of sleep before work tomorrow."

"Dad, the ground's really damp," he said, not exactly complaining, just stating a fact. He wouldn't have minded a little sleep before school tomorrow, either, but there was no point in saying that. "I'm digging as fast as I can."

"Stop whining," John told him sharply. "If this is your fastest, we'll be here all night. And bend your legs, not your back."

He wasn't making much progress and it was pissing off his dad. The soil was packed and dense, and every time he pushed his shovel in, the impact sent an unpleasant jolt up through his shoulders. The temperature was in the mid-forties, fucking _cold_ as far as he was concerned, even if the locals didn't seem impressed.

He hated Wisconsin. Mid-April, and it still felt like winter.

"So let's go through it again, son," his father said calmly, after another minute. "Once we hit the casket, what's the drill?"

_Fuck, not this again._ "C'mon, Dad, we've been through it a million times. I've got it down."

"Then you should have no trouble explaining it, one more time."

"What's to explain?" He paused in his shoveling, twisting up to roll his eyes at his father. "We salt the bones and torch the body, cover it all up and get the hell out of the cemetery before we freeze our balls off!"

"Try it again, without the attitude this time." His father's tone was deceptively mild, but Dean could hear the _don't-jerk-me-around_ warning. "You wouldn't be complaining about the cold if you'd worn a hat like I told you, and I didn't say to stop digging, did I?"

"No, sir."

Dad was always rehashing the basics of the job with him, testing him over and over on the most elementary facts, like he was a dumb kid who couldn't be was downright insulting. He was ready to move on to something more challenging, but his dad kept holding off, checking up on him, criticizing the smallest details. What was the point of all the drills and the training and the target practice, if the only thing he was allowed to do is carry the equipment and dig up a grave?

"I'm waiting, Dean."

"Salting and burning puts the spirit to rest." He rattled off the words in a bored monotone, guaranteed to annoy his father, but so what. "It forces the ghost to move on. The salt's a deterrent. It creates a barrier the spirit can't cross—"

"—and a purifier, don't forget. It's why we use it in…?"

"Holy water, I know. And then you burn the bones so the spirit can't anchor itself to this world anymore."

"That's right. So this ought to take care of the haunting at the Holmes place."

Dean paused to wipe the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "I don't see what this has to do with the hunt. I thought you were looking for some kind of creature, not a ghost."

"I _am_, but that doesn't mean I'm going to close my eyes and ears to everything else going on around these parts. There's plenty of supernatural activity around here. I heard Don Holmes going on about some weird noises in his house, about two weeks ago, when he brought his car into the shop. He bought an old farmhouse out in Como back in February. He sounded a little spooked. Said his girls wouldn't sleep in their beds, kept crying about strange knocking sounds in the closet. Thought I'd look into it."

Of course. His Dad got a kick out of dealing with old haunted houses, in the same way normal people liked to solve crossword puzzles. It was his idea of an intellectual challenge.

"What'd you tell him?"

His father grinned. "Told him it was probably bats in the attic."

Dean had to laugh at that. Hunter's humor.

"So what's the story on, uh…" He glanced up at the headstone. _Sarah McPhee, 1907- 1943. Beloved Wife and Mother, Tragically Taken From Us At Age 36. _"Old Sally, here?"

"Actually, this one wasn't hard to put together. Didn't take more than a day's research. She fell down a flight of stairs and—ah shit, car's coming! Get down."

John flicked off the flashlight and crouched down. Dean bent his knees so just his head peaked out over the top of the grave, and looked out at the road. He could see the headlights of a car crawling by.

"Why's he going so slow?" Dean whispered. "It's one in the morning, what's he doing out here anyway?"

"Quiet!" John hissed at him. The car slowed down to a halt for nearly a minute, then picked up speed again and moved off.

"False alarm," Dean said with a laugh of relief, just as his father muttered "Damn it!"

"He's gone, Dad. Probably just some guy on his way home from a bar, stopped to puke on the side of the road."

John frowned. "That's possible, but… We need to finish up and get out of here. Switch places with me, Dean, we've got no more time to waste."

_Gee, thanks, Dad. Sorry for wasting your time like that. _

He hoisted himself up and took the flashlight from his dad. "Fine with me. I could use a break."

John gave him an appraising look before jumping down into the grave.

Oops.

Admitting weakness to his father was always a tactical error.

"A little digging shouldn't take so much out of you," his father told him, grabbing the shovel. "Looks like we need to work a little more on your upper body strength. Step up your training a notch."

"Yes, sir."

He kept the resentment out of his voice, but… step up his training, holy God. His dad's training regimen was already brutal. Up at dawn six days a week for endless sets of push-ups, pull-ups, and crunches, followed by a run, plus sparring sessions and weapons training on the weekends.

But there was no point in protesting. John had learned his parenting skills from the Marine Corps Drill Manual.

As if to drive his point home, his father began digging with machine-like efficiency, setting a pace Dean couldn't hope to match. "The cops are getting a little edgy, from what I hear, sending out more nighttime patrols," he said, apparently having no trouble keeping up a conversation while he dug. "A guy said he got a glimpse of the creature last week near Delavan, and there've been more animal killings in the area. Dogs clawed up real bad, that sort of thing."

The "creature" was actually a local celebrity. Elkhorn residents call it the Beast of Bray Road, after the stretch of road where witnesses claimed to have seen it. They were actually proud of their little piece of supernatural lore, which had made headlines in the area newspapers a few years back. Privately, Dean thought Elkhorn was just so boring that the Beast gave the locals something to talk about. He was pretty sure that if his father managed to kill it, the town would be disappointed.

"Kids in my class think it's Bigfoot. Or maybe a werewolf."

His father let out a noise that was part grunt, part laugh. "_You_ don't believe that crap, I hope. Bigfoot's a hoax, I've told you before. As for it being a werewolf…" He shook his head. "One thing I'm sure of is that these attacks have nothing to do with the phases of the moon."

"What else do you know?"

"Not too much," his father huffed out, never breaking stride. "Got some theories, done some research. Been interviewing the witnesses, but that takes time."

_There's your opening,_ he thought, _now or never_.

"I could… I could go with you, if you want. On interviews."

He paused to check his father's response. John was frowning slightly. "Or stakeouts," he continued, his confidence faltering. "Uh, help with the research."

"Help with the research," John said, leaning on the shovel to look back up at him in apparent disbelief. "You."

He ignored the sarcasm. "Yes, _me_." He waited for another beat, adding uncertainly, "Only if you wanted me to."

His father was ominously silent for another long minute, leaving him to seriously regret ever opening his mouth.

He could already guess what his dad would say. _You're not cut out for this kind of work. I can't take time to babysit you while I'm on a hunt. You need to watch your brother. You'll never be—_

"Let me see if I understand you, son." There was an undercurrent of derision in his father's tone, or maybe it was just amusement. Either way, he clearly wasn't taking this as seriously as Dean. "You think you're ready to learn the ropes, do something a little more complicated than draw a salt line?"

"Yes sir," he snapped out, military-style. "I'm ready."

"How about we start you out on some research, then, see how you do with that. I need to go through back issues of the local newspapers. It's all on microfiche." John gave him a neutral, questioning look, the challenge behind it clear: _Can you handle the grunt work?_

Microfiche, ugh. Libraries might be Sam's second home, but Dean had never been able to spend more than half an hour in one without losing interest.

Still, it was a step up from digging. "Sounds good," he said firmly.

A slow smile spread across his father's face. "Well, to tell you the truth, son," he confided, "I wouldn't object to the company. Might make the job get done faster too."

Dean grinned in startled surprise. "Really, Dad? You mean it?"

"I mean it," John said, nodding slowly. "_If_ you can show me you can really handle the responsibility. And if we can find a time that works."

"Well, now that Sammy's all involved in soccer practice, I have a little more free time. I have to stick around till six most afternoons, waiting for him."

"I get off at three on Mondays and Wednesdays… I could swing by and pick you up at school, I guess."

"That'd work for me," he agreed. "I get out at three thirty. And… you could go watch Sammy at practice till then. He's pretty good."

"He's sure got a set of long legs on him," John admitted, a fond smile on his face. "Kid's a born runner."

"Yeah, he's pretty fast, for a dweeb."

It was an unexpected triumph. His father was unpredictable. One minute he'd be a demanding, infuriating hardass, and the next, he'd switch over to that _other_ Dad, warm and supportive, the one he looked up to, the one who was proud of him and let him know it.

Dean didn't see him too often, these days.

The shovel finally scraped on wood. "There it is," his father said, giving him a quick nod. "All right, we're in the home stretch."

Within minutes, the coffin lay open, the desiccated bones exposed to the air, and John heaved himself up next to Dean.

He always felt a shiver of dread when the casket was opened. Something about exposing the bones to the cold night air—to say nothing of the next step, salting and burning them—always struck him as a violation of some basic right of the dead to lie undisturbed.

But his father didn't seem concerned. Didn't matter what part of _the job_ he was performing—impersonating a journalist, teaching Dean to stitch a cut, or unearthing a decomposing corpse—he always seemed sure of himself and in control.

"_First thing you have to know," _Dean remembered explaining to his brother that Christmas years ago, _"is that we have the coolest Dad in the world. He's a superhero." _

But it sure as hell wasn't easy being the son of a superhero. Especially if you weren't even a particularly good sidekick, most of the time.

John let him do the salting—(_"For the love of God, it's not a turkey dinner, Dean! Use the whole bag!"_)—but then he took over, pouring the lighter fluid and tossing in the match. The bones burst into flame with a _whoosh_, bathing the two of them in a sudden flash of light.

Dean held his hands out in front of him to warm in the heat, but his father took a few steps away from the blaze, looking out toward the road and frowning.

"What's the matter, Dad?"

"We should finish up and get moving. I didn't like the looks of the car that was here before. We shouldn't stick around. I'm gonna take a leak, and then we'll get started on the cleanup. You keep watch."

After his father walked away, he let himself relax a bit. The hard part was over. It would take a few minutes for the fire to burn itself out, and then they could shovel the dirt back, clean up the gravesite, and head home to his warm bed…

…where he'd have four hours, max, to sleep before his father hauled him and Sam outside for training.

"_Hey, Dad, maybe I could stay home from school tomorrow. Sleep in, you know. I'm kind of beat."_

Ha.

* * *

The moment the embers sputtered out, John began shoveling the dirt back into the grave with the same mechanical efficiency he showed before.

"Come on," he grumbled over his shoulder. "Ditch the flashlight. Grab the other shovel and help out."

"Uh…" _Shit. _"I kind of left it in the car," he said, and then steeled himself, because John was about to go ballistic.

"You _what_?" His father stopped digging and fixed him with the kind of glare that always made him feel about six years old. "Why would you do that?"

_Because I'm an idiot. _"Well… I didn't think we would need it."

"We always bring two shovels. You know that."

"But we only use one," he tried, although he knew it was futile. "The handle on the spare is loose, remember? We need to fix it. I just thought—"

"No, son, you _didn't_ think." His father let out a put-upon sigh, which was always, in Dean's experience, a prelude to a full-on tirade. "You were in charge of equipment. If you weren't sure, you could've asked me. The reason we take two shovels is because one might break, or for when it's a two-man job. Filling up this grave is going to take twice as long without the spare, and this time we're in a fucking hurry!"

"Let me do it, Dad, I'm rested, you don't have to—"

"That's not the point!" John's voice was getting louder, and Dean could hear a creepy echo reverberating off the gravestones. "You're my backup on this job, and I have to be able to depend on you completely. If you want to take on more responsibility, like you just asked, you need to show me you're really ready to handle it!"

He felt his face heat. "I _can_ handle it! It was just one little mistake. That doesn't mean I can't—"

"That's not your call to make! This is a dangerous job, and you have to be prepared for anything. Little or big, I can't have you making _any_ mistakes when you're working with me."

No mistakes…Who the hell could meet that kind of standard?

"It's no problem, Dad," he said quickly. "I'll go back to the car and get the shovel!"

"You sure as hell will! Now get your ass in gear, and double time back to the car!" He fished the keys out of his pocket and practically threw them at him.

"Dad, I'm sorry—"

"I don't want to hear it. Damn it, you always…" John pinched his lips and shook his head in disgust, as if whatever he was about to say wasn't worth the effort. "Back in _three_, Dean. Run!"

"Yes, sir," he said stiffly.

His father's words ringing in his ears, he turned and sprinted back toward the far corner of the cemetery where they left the Impala, just outside the back wall, hidden among the trees.

"_Damn it, you always…" _

It wasn't hard to guess what he'd left unsaid.

_You always disappoint me_. _You always fuck things up. _

And he couldn't blame his father; leaving the spare shovel in the car had been a stupid, impulsive decision, prompted more by laziness (_Why carry extra equipment we don't need?)_ than any sort of logical rationale.

Dad was a stickler for procedure, with everything from their before-school routine to their weekly training schedule. He didn't believe in cutting corners, and God help his sons if they tried to slack off. And his father never minced words.

_Grow up, Dean. _

_Stop acting like you've just had a prefrontal lobotomy._

_For God's sake, do you always have to act like such a fucking teenager?_

All for a stupid spare shovel with a broken handle.

* * *

Minutes later—not three, more like five, because nobody alive could have run all that way and scaled the cemetery wall, twice, in the time limit his father had given him—he was racing back, weaving through the headstones with the second shovel clutched in his hand.

But when he was less than twenty yards away, his father's silhouette was suddenly lit up by the beam of a flashlight, and Dean skidded to a halt.

He dropped down into a crouch, his heart slamming against his chest. He could hear John talking to someone.

He put down the shovel and moved forward cautiously, keeping low, trying to stay mostly out of sight behind some of the larger gravestones. Who the hell would be in a cemetery at this time of night?

Cops.

He crept closer. Two uniformed policemen were standing in front of his father, who was—_oh fuck_—caught red-handed with a shovel in his hand and old Sally's bones just gone up in smoke.

Not good.

He ducked behind a large headstone, no more than six or seven yards away, close enough to hear them clearly.

"—you live around here?"

"Got a place at the Elkhorn Commons on Gorman Avenue. Been there since January."

"What're you doing with that shovel, John?" Dean hated the way the cop used his father's first name so casually.

"It's not what it looks like."

"Looks to me like somebody just dug up this grave. Was that you?"

"No sir." John sounded vaguely indignant and utterly sincere. "Why would I do that?"

"What're you doing here, then, in the middle of the night?"

"Came here to think," his father said smoothly. "You probably think it's a little weird, but cemeteries are quiet and peaceful… I like looking at the stones." His delivery was perfect: calm and just a little embarrassed.

_Good one, Dad._

Dean pulled himself carefully up until just his eyes were peeking over the headstone. He couldn't make out the faces of the two cops, but he could see that one was tall and thin, and the other was more heavyset and seemed older.

"Do you do that often?" the taller one asked.

"Often enough. Different graveyards, couple times a year."

"How did you get here, sir?"

"Walked," John replied evenly. "Took less than an hour."

"Why not take your car? It's pretty chilly."

"Like I said, I just wanted to clear my head. I don't mind the cold or the walk."

Dean nodded to himself. The cops couldn't pin anything on his father as long as he didn't admit to anything. Being at the wrong place at the wrong time wasn't a crime.

"Are you employed, John?"

"I'm a mechanic at Elkhorn Auto."

"So what were you doing with the shovel?"

John spread his hands and shrugged, as if to say: _There's a simple explanation for all this. _"I was way over on the west side of the cemetery, but I saw a big flash of light here, like a fire, and came over to investigate. By the time I got here, whoever'd done it was gone. The grave was dug up and the casket was burning. So I, uh… thought I'd put it back to rights." John pointed at the shovel, resting on the pile of dirt next to him. "Maybe I should have left it, but it just seemed disrespectful to leave it the way it was."

The cops exchanged a look.

"Actually, sir," the older cop said, stepping closer, "we were watching the area for several minutes before we came over. In fact, we saw you standing over the open grave the entire time. And we heard you talking to someone else."

Dean felt a pang of guilt so acute it made him wince._ He was arguing with _me_ over that stupid spare shovel. _They must've both been so distracted they hadn't noticed the cops walking up.

"You're mistaken," John said, after a pause. His voice was still controlled and calm, but Dean could hear the underlying strain.

"Sir, did you set that fire?"

John's posture stiffened. "I just told you what happened."

The older cop shook his head. "All right, John, we're taking you into custody. Put your hands behind your back."

Dean's eyes widened. He watched, open-mouthed, as the tall cop cuffed his father, and the other one began patting him down.

_Crap, they're going to find—_

Too late. The cop was holding up John's Beretta, easily discovered where it had been tucked into the small of his back. "Do you have a license to carry this gun?"

"No sir," his father answered in the clipped tones that meant _pissed as hell._

"There's a bottle of lighter fluid here, Nash." The younger cop was holding up a yellow plastic bottle. "We need to search the area, see what else he might have tossed aside around here."

Dean barely had time to duck down behind the headstone before the cop started walking back in his direction.

The pool of light from the flashlight shifted around, first on one side of his hiding place, and then the other. The gleam grew stronger and larger, the footsteps came nearer, and Dean held his breath. The cop couldn't be more than three feet behind him.

_Oh, God, if they find me, Sammy's going to be—_

His heart was pounding so fast he felt light-headed.

If the cops caught them both, Sam would be left on his own. Dean couldn't imagine a more nightmarish scenario for his little brother, just twelve years old and left to wake up alone, abandoned, with no explanation.

_Please not that_, he begged, unsure who he was pleading with. _I need to get back home. Please, let him move away…_

"Too damn dark out here," the cop finally muttered, sounding frustrated. "Can't see a thing, even with the flashlight."

_Yes_, he breathed.

"Let's take this guy back to the car and call for another patrol. Then one of us'll take him down to the station, and the others can search the area with a floodlight. We'll see if he's got some wheels stashed somewhere around here too."

"All right, then," the other one said, "let's move."

* * *

Dean stayed hunched behind the cold marble headstone, listening until the crunch of boots died away. After a few minutes, he heard the faint sound of a car door opening and then slamming shut.

He stood up on shaky legs. He felt hollow, detached, as if the last ten minutes had never happened.

His father, the rock-solid base his world was grounded on, had just been hauled off in handcuffs like a common criminal.

What was he supposed to do now?

He waited uncertainly for another minute, shivering in the dark. There was no procedure for this, no practiced run-through of _If-I-ever-get-arrested_ to fall back on.

The embarrassing truth was, he was half-convinced John was going to come striding back to him any second now, shaking his head in contempt, telling him how he'd managed to convince the cops he was innocent after all. Or, more likely, his father would just escape somehow. Sure he was handcuffed, but maybe he could get one of the cops to release him. He could fake a heart attack or something, or say the cuffs were cutting off his circulation. It was possible, wasn't it?

For a few seconds, he imagined how the two of them would share a nice bonding moment as they rode home, laughing at the incompetence of small-town cops. _That was a close one, Dad,_ he'd say, and his father would give him one of his rare smiles. He could almost hear John telling Caleb all about it in a month or two, throwing back shots of whiskey and embellishing the details, turning the momentary crisis into a favorite war story.

A set of headlights pulling into the parking lot jolted him out of his fantasy. It was the backup patrol car, he realized, and he was standing there like a fool.

He had to leave. Now.

The cop's words suddenly registered on his sluggish brain: _"We'll see if he's got some wheels stashed somewhere around here too." _

The car. He had to get to the Impala before the cops did—Holy shit, the trunk was loaded with rifles, guns, knives, and fake IDs—and he needed to get home to his brother.

Alone.

He kept the car's headlights off until he was a mile beyond the cemetery. There were no street lights this far out into the country, and more than once he swerved off the road onto the dirt shoulder. His hands were so shaky on the wheel, it was a miracle he didn't get stopped for erratic driving.

He slipped into their tiny apartment quietly and headed straight for the bathroom. He needed to tell Sam what had happened, but not like this, covered in grave dirt and sweat. There was no reason to wake him up in the middle of the night, anyway. The news could wait till morning, and maybe by then he'd have a plan of action.

He was in charge, and his brother would have a million questions. He needed a few hours to think things through, figure out what he was going to say.

He grimaced at his reflection in the mirror. His face was covered in flecks of dirt, and his hair was spiky with sweat. He looked like a frightened, disheveled kid.

That was never going to cut it.

He splashed cold water on his face and ran his fingers through his hair, then straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. This time, the boy in the mirror stared back at him coolly, with a hard glint in his eye.

Better. He could handle this. He was the son of a hunter and he didn't panic.

He really _was_ calmer after his shower. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that his father's arrest wasn't necessarily such a catastrophe. It was his first offense, wasn't it? For all John lived on the edge of society, without property in his name or a steady job, he was a law-abiding citizen. Mostly.

True, he had a selection of fake IDs with credit cards to match, but he hadn't actually been caught using them. He paid his taxes—Dean knew this, because he complained about it every year—and drove exactly at the speed limit. As far as John Winchester was concerned, the first law of the Hunter's Creed was _Don't draw unwanted attention to yourself_, and that meant toeing the line whenever possible.

Plus, his father was a veteran, a Marine. That had to count for something.

Carrying a concealed weapon was a crime, sure, but his father could probably talk his way out of that. There was a Constitutional right to bear arms, right? He remembered learning something about it in civics class, in one of his schools. As for digging up the grave, John hadn't admitted anything and he was innocent until proven guilty.

He'd probably get a fine, but so what. Maybe he'd be put on probation or get community service. Dean had to smile at the thought of his father working in a soup kitchen or reading to the elderly.

He'd seen enough episodes of _NYPD Blue_ to know that once his father was charged, he'd be released on bail. They were pretty low on cash, so maybe his dad could get an advance from his boss at the auto shop. But he'd be home in a day or two, no matter what. Dean just had to hold things together and take care of Sam until then.

No big deal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two **

He woke to Sam shaking his shoulder roughly. "Dean, wake up, we overslept. C'mon, it's seven fifteen, we're gonna be late for school."

He cracked his eyes open with a groan. His neck gave a painful twinge when he sat up, protesting the awkward position he'd been laying in, curled up on the couch on the scratchy pillow cushion. He raked a hand through his hair and stretched, trying to soothe the ache in his shoulders and lower back.

"What time did you get back in last night?" Sam asked. He was rushing around, stuffing books and papers into his backpack and fumbling for his shoes. "I didn't hear you, so I guess it was pretty late… Did you make my sandwich yet?"

He took a breath, steadying himself. "Not yet. We're not going to school this morning, Sammy. We're taking the day off."

He'd made the decision last night, just before he'd fallen asleep. John might be released in the morning and it wasn't out of the question that he'd want to skip town right away. They needed to be ready. School wasn't a priority right now.

But Sam just shook his head, not even looking up as he tied his shoes with quick, impatient movements. "I've got a math test today. You can stay here if you want, but I'm going." He hefted his backpack over one shoulder, then paused, frowning. "Hey, where's dad?"

"Put your bag back down and listen for a minute, okay? Sit _down_," he said more forcefully, gesturing toward the other end of the couch.

His brother huffed in aggravation, then flopped down next to him, keeping his backpack clutched in his lap. He glanced impatiently at his watch, then looked at Dean. "_What_?" he snapped. "I'm late."

"We ran into a little problem last night at the cemetery. Some cops showed up after we did the salt and burn." Dean paused, because he didn't know quite how to phrase this. "They, uh… took Dad in for questioning."

"Questioning?" Sam's mouth literally dropped open. "You mean they _arrested_ him? With handcuffs? Reading him his rights and everything?"

Sometimes he wished Sam weren't so sharp. "They didn't read him his rights, but, yeah, handcuffs."

"Why didn't you get arrested too?"

"I was hiding and they didn't see me," he said, hoping Sam wouldn't press for the details. _Dad was arrested because he was so busy yelling at me he didn't notice the cops until they were right on top of him. Yeah, sorry about that._

Sam shoved the backpack onto the floor, then slumped back, biting his lip. "This isn't a little problem, Dean, it's huge! What are we going to do?"

"It's not so bad," Dean said quickly. "I think they'll probably just let him go with a warning, but he might, you know, have to pay a fine, or get a little jail time."

Sam's eyes grew wide and solemn. "Jail time? For how long?"

"I didn't say he_ was_ going to jail. That's the worst-case scenario. You know Dad, he'll talk his way out of it and probably be home before lunch."

Sam was quiet, digesting this. "Maybe," he said finally, his mouth twisting into a pessimistic frown. "It's against the law to dig up a grave. I mean, that's really serious. Cemeteries are hallowed ground."

"They didn't _see_ him dig up the grave. He was standing next to a grave that was dug up, shoveling he dirt back _in_." Even to his own ears, it sounded ridiculous, but for his brother's sake, he tried to sound confident. "They can't prove anything."

Sam glared at him irritably, refusing to be mollified. "No judge is going to believe that. Did you burn the body? That's a crime too. That's even _worse_. Is it a felony or a misdemeanor?"

"If he doesn't admit it, it's just circumstantial." He paused. "And how do you know about felonies and misdemeanors, anyway?"

"We learned about them in school. Social studies." Dean nodded, unsurprised. His brother took school seriously and never forgot anything he learned. Dean knew—vaguely—about felonies and misdemeanors too, but only because of _L.A. Law_ reruns.

"Well, it's a misdemeanor, I think." _I hope_. "And it's his first offense. So don't worry."

He reached out a hand to rub through his brother's hair, mussing it up just to annoy him. Sam shrugged off the touch, squirming away. "Leave me alone," he said sourly.

"C'mon, let's have breakfast, and then—"

Sam turned a suddenly furious glare on him. "Stop treating me like a little kid! What if they find your fingerprints on the shovel? What if the police come _here_? What if they think Dad was, I don't know, some kind of psycho or something, and they come looking for evidence?"

_Damn it, he's started with his questions. _Sam was smart, and he watched the same crime shows Dean did. "They can't come here without a warrant, Sammy"—_Could they?_—"and they didn't see me, I told you."

Sam's expression became hard and stubborn. "What if he can't post bail? We don't have that kind of money."

"We'll get it. Pastor Jim will help us." Pastor Jim wasn't rich by any means, but at least he had steady employment. Surely he'd be able to lend them some money if they need it.

"Dean." There was a sudden note of fear in his brother's voice. "What if they figure out Dad has two kids, and he's in jail, and there's nobody looking after us? He can't lie about that. They're gonna find out and send somebody here to get us."

_Somebody_ meaning Child Protective Services.

For years, he'd had nightmares about CPS finding out the truth about how they lived and what his father did. In his dreams, Sam would be taken away, or he'd come home to discover Sam was missing, and Dean would search endlessly for his brother but never find him. He'd wake up, heart pounding, still overwhelmed with desperation and terror for a second or two, until he came back to himself and recognized his brother's sleeping form in the bed across the room.

"That's not gonna happen," he said sharply, as much to himself as to Sam. "And _I'm_ looking after us."

His brother nodded and slumped back, looking only partially reassured.

* * *

Dad called half an hour later.

He snatched up the phone after the first ring, almost shaking with relief when he heard his father's voice. "Dad, are you okay?" Sam pressed up next to him, and he held the phone a little way out from his ear so Sam could hear too. "When are you coming home?"

"I'm fine. I'm waiting for the arraignment, to talk to the judge. Should be today or tomorrow."

"Great. That's good."

"You stayed home from school, I take it."

"We thought you might call," he said quickly. "We didn't want to miss it." The rule was they never stayed home from school unless they had a temperature of 103 or higher. No exceptions.

"Sure, son, that's fine."

"It is?" It was the last thing he expected his father to say.

"It's okay if you take a day or two off school, in these circumstances," John added in a softer tone. "I know you're probably upset by what's happened, and it's natural for you boys to want to be together."

Sam shot him a look that said: _What the hell?_

"But you shouldn't sit around all day," his father continued, without waiting for a response. "Go outside, get some exercise. You kids should take in a movie or go bowling like we did last month."

The last movie they'd seen in a theater was _Home Alone 2_ for Sammy's 9th birthday. They'd never even been to a bowling alley. If they wanted to play with a ball, John had told them more than once, they could take their butts outside and do it for free.

He wondered if the cops had knocked his father around a little. Maybe he had a concussion.

"Dad, are you sure—"

"Tomorrow too," his father interrupted, cutting him off. "I don't want you to see my absence as an excuse to get lazy or mope around the apartment. You two should _get out_," he said with undeniable emphasis, and Dean's brain finally clicked into gear. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. I understand." Sam was giving him a bewildered stare, as if he and his father were both lunatics, but Dean could recognize an order when he heard one.

"One more thing. I haven't been able to get hold of Jim Murphy yet. I want you to call him. Tell him…" John sighed, and Dean's stomach clenched. "Tell him I may need some help with this. You still know the number, right?"

All through his childhood, _If I'm not back in time, call Pastor Jim _had been John's standing instruction, just before he left on a hunt. Dean hadn't actually seen the pastor in years, not since he was about twelve. He knew his father talked to Jim every few months, but he and Sammy were old enough now that they didn't need a babysitter when Dad went off on a hunting job, even if it lasted a few weeks.

He still remembered the number, though. It had been drilled into him often enough when he was a kid.

"Of course. Anything else?"

"If Jim doesn't answer, try Caleb. Oh, and as long as you're calling Jim, tell him to swing by and pick up that old toolbox of his that I left in the trunk of the car."

The only toolbox in the trunk was John's, but Dean said, "I'll tell him, no problem, Dad. Come home as soon as you can."

He hung up, then sat down heavily on the couch, lost in thought.

Sammy started pacing around the tiny living room, shaking his head. "That was really weird. Why would he tell us to go to the movies? He always says it's a waste of money and we can wait until they show them on TV! This doesn't make any sense…"

Dean snorted. "He doesn't really want us to go to the movies."

"And what did he mean, give Pastor Jim back his toolbox? There's no extra toolbox in the trunk."

"Think a minute, Sammy. You _know_ what's in the trunk, right? All those guns and knives and stuff… He means we should give it all to Pastor Jim until Dad gets back. Maybe he's worried the cops'll get their hands on the car."

Sam's brow furrowed. "He said, go outside and get some exercise. Are we supposed to go train _now_? We never do it in the middle of the day!"

He was a little amused at his brother's confusion, then sobered, remembering his own shock and denial the night before. Sam had had less than an hour to take it all in, and John's veiled hints and odd behavior obviously hadn't helped. "Relax," he said, trying to project a calm he didn't feel. "We'll call Pastor Jim and tell him what happened. Caleb too. And then we're gonna pack up the car because Dad wants us to get out of the apartment. That's what he was hinting at."

"Why didn't he just say so, then?" Sam asked suspiciously. "It didn't even sound like Dad. He didn't get mad when you said we stayed home from school. He said it's _okay to be upset_…"

"I dunno, Sammy, maybe he wanted to make a good impression on the cops." Despite everything, Dean started to laugh. Dad had probably gotten a kick out of pretending to be Single Parent of the Year. "Or maybe there's a TV in his jail cell and he's sitting around watching _Oprah_."

Sam was smiling, but his eyes were worried.

* * *

Pastor Jim didn't pick up. There was no answering machine, either, so he couldn't even leave a message.

When he tried Caleb's number, he got a recording: _The number you have reached is out of service._

Great. They didn't have any other emergency contacts. They had no relatives to speak of and John had never told them how to reach his army buddies.

"Go pack up your clothes and stuff," Dean told Sam. "I'll do Dad's things."

He looked around the tiny living room, where his father slept on the fold-out couch. Clipped newspaper articles about the animal attacks and sightings of the creature he was hunting were spread all over the kitchen table and taped to the walls. If the cops got a good look at that, to say nothing of John's journal, he'd be screwed. They'd probably lock him up in some maximum-security psych ward, just on principle.

He gathered it all up, including the journal, and stuffed it into his school backpack. Then he fished out Dad's hidden stash of money from the couch cushion. He counted it carefully: two hundred twenty three dollars.

Not nearly enough, if Dad needed it to make bail.

The rest of the job was relatively easy—Dad had a routine for packing up too, of course—and they were ready to leave within the hour. Dean washed the breakfast dishes and made peanut butter sandwiches with the last of the bread while Sam took out the trash and cleaned the bathroom.

He tried Pastor Jim again, but there was no answer. He'd wait a few hours and call again from a payphone.

It occurred to him, as he closed the door behind them, that his father would have no way to contact them if he needed to. But he'd be home today or tomorrow, so what did it matter?

He drove the Impala to the parking lot of the complex across the street, within eyesight of their own apartment, and they waited.

It was incredibly boring. And uncomfortable, after a few hours: cramped, stuffy, and hot. He didn't want anyone to start asking questions about why they weren't in school, so they stayed in the car. He reparked about once an hour, moving up and down the street, always staying in sight of their front door.

Sam read _The Hobbit_ and worked on math, and Dean brooded. He was supposed to be reading Vonnegut's _Cat's Cradle_ for English, but he couldn't really concentrate. He dozed off and on. They drove to McDonald's for meals and bathroom breaks, but mostly, they watched the door of their apartment and waited for John to show up.

He didn't.

Dean wasn't particularly concerned, since Dad had said he might not see the judge until tomorrow. He told his brother to be patient and helped him study for his history test until it was too dark to read.

Sleeping in the Impala was impossible, at least for him. After he made a quick raid into the apartment for pillows and blankets, Sam stretched out in the back seat and fell into his usual deep sleep within minutes. But Dean couldn't find a position that didn't make his legs cramp and his back ache.

By morning, he was in a foul mood.

"Ugh," he groaned when he realized he'd parked the car at an angle that sent the sun's first rays straight into his eyes. "Sammy, wake up." The car was stuffy and smelled of French fries and sour breath.

Sam snuffled and stretched. "What time is it?"

"Time to find a bathroom and brush our teeth. Open your window, the car stinks."

By the time they were waiting in line for the McDonald's drive-thru, Sam was wide awake and bombarding him with questions, as if a good night's sleep had sent his brain into overdrive. And Dean had no answers for most of them.

"What if Dad comes by while we're out getting breakfast? How will we know he's home?"

"He'll make a signal," Dean said, hoping he was right. "He'll open the curtains or something. We'll know."

"What if he goes looking for us? He'll never find us!"

"We have the car, Sammy. He's not going to get very far on foot. He'll just wait for us."

He used the pay phone outside McDonald's, but Pastor Jim was still out and Caleb's phone gave him the same recorded message.

"How come Pastor Jim's not answering his phone?" Sam asked as they pull away, unwrapping his McMuffin.

"How should I know?"

"You called him three times yesterday. Do you think he's on vacation?"

"He doesn't get a vacation, dufus," Dean said in his best _you're-so-dumb_ tone, hoping Sam would back off the subject. The fact was, he had no real idea of what a pastor's job entailed, other than leading church services. "He's the pastor. That's like the priest in charge. He's probably out visiting some sick old lady or something."

"I'm sick of sitting in the car. Why can't I go to soccer practice, at least? If I don't show up today I won't be able to play in the game on Saturday."

There was a fair chance they'd be in another part of the country by Saturday, but Dean didn't say that. "Dad'll be back by the end of the day. You can miss one practice, Sammy, it's not the end of the world."

"What if the judge doesn't let him out today?"

"Course he will," he scoffed. "He's not a murderer or a bank robber. The judge has to set bail and then he'll come home."

"How much is bail?"

Good question. Cash amounts were never mentioned on the TV shows he watched. "I don't know. Don't worry, Dad'll come up with the money."

"Why can't we just call the jail and ask what's happening? Can't we go visit him? We're his kids, they have to let us in."

Dean sighed. It probably made sense to a twelve-year-old. But it was clear enough to him that two minor, unaccompanied children of an inmate couldn't just present themselves to the local lockup and ask to see their father. Not if they wanted to saunter back out again at the end of the visit, anyway. "It doesn't work that way, Sammy. We just have to wait and see."

But John didn't show all morning, and by mid-afternoon, his brother was beginning to drive him crazy with his questions and his pestering.

Still no answer from Pastor Jim.

When he got back after his fifth call, he could tell there was going to be trouble. Sam had his gaze fixed on the Movie Gallery across the street. Before his brother could get the words out, he made a pre-emptive strike.

"We're not going to the movies, so don't even bother asking. Dad didn't really mean that."

Sam scowled, shoulders slumping. "You don't know that. He said it like an order."

"Well, I'm in charge now, and you have to do what _I_ say." He turned the key in the ignition and the Impala rumbled back to life. "We're going back to the apartment to wait."

They parked across the street and finished their meals, Sam pointedly ignoring Dean's attempts at humor, including tossing French fries at him and burping on purpose.

"Stop pouting," Dean finally told him irritably.

"I'm not pouting."

Whatever. He could ignore Sam too. See how he liked _that_. Anyway, the sleepless night and greasy food were acting like a sedative, and he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Gonna take a nap," he said, hunching down into a semi-reclining position. "Keep an eye out."

Sam waited until a minute after he'd closed his eyes before announcing, "I'm bored."

Oh, crap, not this. "Thanks for sharing, buddy," he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes. "Read your book."

"I finished it."

"So read it again."

"How about we go to the library? I can get out another book."

"Not in the middle of the day when we're supposed to be in school."

"I need to pee."

"Be my guest," he grunted out, exasperated. "There's a tree right over there."

"Gross, Dean."

"Why don't you work on math? Get ahead in your workbook."

"I worked on it for an hour yesterday. I'm all set with math."

"Read _my_ book, then. Or write your own book, for all I care. Just shut _up_ so I can get some sleep!"

By the time Sam had subsided, agreeing in the end to organize the mess of torn and mis-folded maps in the glove compartment, Dean couldn't get to sleep anyway.

* * *

Two hours later, the worried voice in the back of his head saying _something's gone wrong_ had become a panicky shout. His father should have been home by now.

He hadn't asked his father where he was being held, but he could make a good guess. The local jail was east of Elkhorn, on an isolated stretch of County Road about four miles away. He'd passed by it often enough on their weekend runs. The jail probably had visiting hours, but there was just no way two teenagers could show up there without an adult, asking for their father. It would be like ringing a bell and telling CPS they were available, ready to be picked up and carted away.

If his father needed money for bail and couldn't get hold of Pastor Jim, he knew, the most obvious place for him to get it was from his boss at Elkhorn Auto. Dad must have some back pay due. Maybe the manager, Joe something-or-other, would advance him some money. At the very least, Dean could ask him to call the courthouse and find out what was happening.

They'd waited long enough, he decided. Time to get some answers and figure out what to do.

It was a little after three when Dean pulled into the parking lot of Elkhorn Auto.

"Wait for me here."

"Wait in the _car_, really? Big surprise." From what he could tell, Sam had been spending the past day and a half perfecting his girly scowl, complete with a sigh and a disgusted eye roll.

"Just do it. I need five minutes, that's all."

Sam made a pointed show of slouching down in his seat and staring at the book in his lap as if it was the sole focus of his concentration. His expression was a decent attempt at _I-don't-give-a-shit_, but Dean could feel the anger coming off him in waves.

Well, so what. He didn't blame his brother for being fed up with hiding out in the car—God knew he was sick of it too—but Dad's orders were clear enough. Sam should just suck it up and stop whining.

Dean pushed the car door closed with a satisfying slam.

He was directed to a small office at the back of the garage. The door was partially open, and Dean could see a balding, powerfully-built man about his father's age sitting behind a desk, punching numbers into a battered desktop calculator with his left hand and jotting something down in a notebook with his right. _Joe Hamilton, Manager_, proclaimed a small sign on the desk.

He looked up when Dean knocked on the door. "Can I help you?"

He stepped up to the desk. "I'm John Winchester's son. My name is Dean."

The man's welcoming smile lost its openness, and his eyes narrowed as he looked Dean up and down. After a few awkward seconds, he leaned forward and stuck his hand out, and Dean grasped it firmly. "Joe Hamilton. Your father's a good mechanic."

"Yes, sir." The man gestured for him to sit in one of the two chairs facing the desk, but he shook his head. "I just wanted to know if you've heard from my dad, yesterday or maybe today."

"Yeah, I got a call from him 'bout two hours ago, as a matter of fact."

Bingo. "Can you tell me what you talked about?"

Hamilton nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "Well, I guess you've got a right to know… Have a seat."

He sat reluctantly, his stomach knotting.

"I take it you're looking for him," Hamilton said, giving him a look that was part sympathy, part caution. "Have you heard from him at all?"

"I know he's been arrested, if that's what you mean." Dean kept his tone matter-of-fact. "He called us yesterday morning."

"All right, so you know that much." Hamilton looked relieved. "What exactly did he tell you?"

"He said he's supposed to come up before the judge, or maybe he already has. We haven't heard from him since then, and I thought maybe he told you what was happening."

"Well," Hamilton said slowly, as if he was weighing his words, choosing what to say. "He told me he needed a certain sum of money for bail, and he asked if I could advance him some cash."

The man's reticence was making his insides clench, but he pressed, "Did he say how much?"

"He sure did. It was a pretty hefty amount."

"We don't…" _We don't have much money_, he almost blurted out."Uh, we don't have any relatives around here. That's probably why he called you."

"Well, that's a damn shame, but..." Hamilton paused, then leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Do you know what your father's been arrested for?"

"Uh, no sir."

"When he spoke to me, John said it was a trumped-up charge. Said he'd been walking around in the old Dunbar Cemetery, minding his own business, and the police nabbed him for trespassing."

"Dad has this thing about graveyards," he said as casually as he could, like it was a family eccentricity. "I know it's kinda strange, but he likes the quiet, or something. Sometimes he walks around 'em at night."

Hamilton sighed. "Look, son, I've got a brother-in-law who works in the county sheriff's office. He asked around for me. Turns out your father wasn't exactly telling the whole truth. It's a little more complicated than that."

So much for Dad being able to talk his way out of anything. "What's he charged with? I really need to know."

"First tell me who's 'we.'" Dean looked up at him, confused. "You said, _we_ don't have any relatives around here, _we_ haven't heard from him since yesterday. John told me he's a widower, so who's _we_?"

What did this have to do with anything? "I've got a brother, Sam. He's twelve."

"And how old are you?"

"I'm sixteen. And a half."

Hamilton's expression softened. "Who's been looking out for the two of you?"

"We're fine, sir," Dean said firmly. "We've been staying with our neighbors. What's my dad charged with?"

"Damage to a cemetery, among other things. They think he dug up a grave and burned a corpse." Hamilton made a grimace of disgust, and Dean tried not to wince. "And he was carrying a loaded weapon at the time. Those are serious crimes. They set the bail high."

"How…" His voice cracked, and he stopped, embarrassed. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "How much is the bail?" It came out steadier this time.

"Higher than I'm willing to pay," Hamilton said flatly. "I'll be frank with you, son. Your dad's what they call a flight risk. He's new around here, and from what he told me, he moves around a lot. He's got no property, no ties to the community. The judge probably doesn't think he'll show up for his trial, so he set the bail high enough to make sure he doesn't run. I like your dad, but I'm not willing to put myself into debt for him. I'm sorry."

"I understand." Dean could feel sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

_Dad's not getting out of jail. He's not coming home. We're on our own._

He was suddenly aware that Hamilton was looking at him, a pitying expression on his face that made his ears burn. "Uh, thank you for telling me, at least." He felt his throat closing up and slammed his mouth shut. There was nothing else to say, anyway. He nodded to Hamilton and left.

He walked out of the garage, hardly aware of where his feet were taking him. How the hell was he going to tell Sam? His brother thought Dad would be showing up any minute, hopefully before his soccer practice that afternoon. But Dad had already met with the judge, and the bail had been set so high that he—

_The judge doesn't think he'll show up for his trial._

_Those are serious crimes._

He felt his heart start to pound as Hamilton's words finally sank in. There was going to be a trial, and if the judge decided he was guilty, Dad was going to prison, maybe for _months_. Maybe longer.

Dad wasn't coming back. Not anytime soon, at least.

"Dean, wait!" He turned to see Hamilton striding up to him out of the building, clutching a white envelope in his hand. "Hang on, I've got something for you."

Wordlessly, he took the envelope and peeked inside, eyes widening.

Five hundred-dollar bills.

Oh, God. It wasn't enough that this guy thought his father was some sort of deviant and wouldn't help him get out of jail; now he was obviously feeling sorry for them and trying to assuage his guilt.

"Sir, we don't need your money," he said coldly, meeting the man's eyes with a blaze of anger. "We're fine."

Hamilton stepped back, his hands held out in front of him in a conciliatory gesture. "Relax, I'm not offering you a handout. That's your father's wages right there, give or take."

Dean blinked. "Oh. Uh, sorry."

"Doesn't look like he's going to be around at the end of the month to collect 'em. So the money's yours."

He stuffed the envelope in his pocket, grateful and humiliated. "Thanks, then." His voice felt raw, as if it hurt to say the words.

He turned to the car, where his brother was sitting wide-eyed, watching the whole interaction.

Shit.

* * *

Sam insisted they leave a note for John, slipped under their apartment door, just in case. _Gone to PJs_, it read._ Call us there_.

"He's not going to get the note," Dean told him, trying to keep his tone gentle. "I told you why."

Sam lifted his chin stubbornly. "Maybe he will."

He didn't argue.

It was a six-hour drive to Blue Earth. Sam fished out a map of Wisconsin from the glove compartment and announced he was the navigator, and Dean gave him a small smile. Sure, let him feel like he was contributing.

But he drew the line when Sam dug out a handful of cassette tapes from the bottom of his backpack and dumped them in the box they kept on the front seat between them. "What the hell? Where'd you get these?"

"One of my friends gave 'em to me. He's transferring his music collection to CDs. Everybody is."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Don't get excited, here. The music's got to pass the test before we play it."

"I knew it." There it was again, the patented eye-roll and scowl. "Don't tell me, the test is whether it's _your_ kind of music or not."

He grinned. "Can't have little brothers thinking they can just run the place when Dad's away."

"Like you'd dare to have your _own_ music. You only play what Dad likes."

The remark stung more than it should have. Music was one of the few things he and his father enjoyed together. "No, squirt, I only play what _I_ like. We just happen to have the same good taste."

"This music is good too," Sam told him earnestly. "You just have to give it a try."

"All right, hit me." He dropped his smile, and gave Sam his best pseudo-sincere, _you-can-tell-me-anything_ face. "What is it? Madonna?"

Sam flushed. "Not Madonna, okay? Green Day, R.E.M., Billy Joel, James Taylor, Mariah Carey—"

"James _Taylor_, are you kidding?" He shuddered. "Thought I raised you better than that."

Sam shook his head, looking resigned and unsurprised. "Never mind. You're such a douche, Dean."

"I'm the big brother," he said, grabbing a Zeppelin tape and shoving it into the player. "That's just the way it is."

* * *

By the time they pulled up to the Church of St. John the Apostle that evening, it was after nine. It'd been nearly four years since Dean was last here, but the sight of the huge stained glass windows, lit dimly from within, and the clean modern lines of the building, felt familiar and safe.

It was a fleeting illusion.

"I'm Father Davis, the assistant pastor. Pastor Murphy's on sabbatical," a young red-haired priest informed them, looking at them quizzically. "He left for Costa Rica about three weeks ago and won't be back for six months. And you are…?"

It hit him like a punch to the gut. Costa Rica, where the fuck was that? And for six months… He felt like his last lifeline had just been snatched away, leaving him helpless in the waves.

He realized belatedly that the pastor was giving him a concerned look; his shock must be written all over his face. "Uh, that's too bad," he said quickly, aiming for a light tone but not quite managing to hide his disappointment. "Pastor Jim's an old friend of our father's. We were just… just driving through the area. Thought we'd stop by and say hi."

"I'm sure he'd have wanted to see you. It's a shame you missed him."

_Understatement. _"I guess Dad didn't know he was away." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam watching them anxiously.

"It came up pretty suddenly," the man told them genially. "Something to do with his research, I think. He corresponds with colleagues all over the world, you know, does a lot of consulting on the occult. He's quite well known in his field."

A hunt, Dean translated. Or some ancient text he was going to translate. Perfect timing.

And now he was at a loss. His entire plan had hinged on talking to Pastor Jim, and then, somehow, bailing his father out of jail. He hadn't even allowed himself to consider anything else. But obviously that wasn't going to happen.

"Where's your father, kids?" Father Davis asked, smiling down at them. "It's late and I was about to close up, but I'd be happy to talk to him. I have Jim's address."

"He's in the car," Dean said, just as Sam piped up, "Dad's not here."

For a second the pastor looked perplexed, then his smile disappeared and his demeanor became more serious. "Well, which is it? In the car, or not here?"

He shot a glare in Sam's direction—Shut _up_—and met Father Davis' eye. "He's in the car, like I said. But he's asleep. It's been a long drive." He paused. "If you give me Pastor Jim's address, I'll see that he gets it."

Naturally, that didn't fly.

Sam folded under direct questioning (_"He's a priest, Dean! It's a sin to lie to a priest!"_) and a few minutes later, Dean found himself having a one-on-one talk with the assistant pastor in his study while his brother waited on one of the pews.

"So," Father Davis said slowly, "you drove your brother all the way here from—Wisconsin, did you say?—just to talk to Pastor Jim, who's a friend of your father's… who isn't here with you." Dean nodded. "Where _are_ your parents, Dean?"

"My mother died when I was little. And I'm sorry, Father, but it's none of your business where my dad is."

The pastor seemed unperturbed by his belligerence. "Is he in some kind of trouble?" When Dean didn't answer, he continued, "Are _you_?"

"Look, it's nothing you can help us with," Dean said firmly. "Thanks and everything, but we're fine, really."

"You're runaways."

Dean didn't say anything. Let him think that. What did it matter?

"Do you want to tell me what made you leave home?"

"No, sir."

"Are either of you injured or in need of medical treatment?"

"No, Father. We're fine, really."

The man frowned impatiently. "Well, I think we've just established that you're _not_ fine, but I'm glad you're both all right physically. Do you have somewhere to go from here? Some relative, or a friend you can stay with?"

He'd been going around and around with that question for hours, but he kept coming up blank. But the pastor was giving him an odd, sympathetic look he didn't like, and it was clearly time to move on. "Thanks for your interest, but you don't have to worry about us. If you could just give me Pastor Jim's address, we'll be going."

But Sam had fallen asleep in the pew and Dean was exhausted, and Father Davis was persistent. They ended up spending the night in the spare bedroom at the rectory.

The next day, Father Davis took them to Harbor House.

* * *

Harbor House was a no-frills emergency shelter for homeless teens run by the church up in Minneapolis, and it was a lot better than living in the car, Dean supposed. It was clean and there were regular meals, and Sam could spend his mornings in the learning center with a tutor, so he didn't have to miss much school.

But it was a temporary solution, and Dean still couldn't figure out what to do.

He refused to cooperate with Gloria, the youth counselor, although he knew she meant well. But what was the point? "I don't want to talk about it," he told her gruffly. "We ran off because we had no choice, and we can't go back home. End of story."

But they'd been there for two weeks already, and three weeks was the limit at the shelter. Gloria kept trying to get him to form an "action plan" and talk about his options. He knew he needed to make some decisions, but none of the alternatives looked good.

"We can put _you_ into a group hostel, what we call transitional housing," Gloria told him. "You can work and go to school, and we'll teach you the skills you'll need for independent living. But your brother's too young for the hostel. He needs a supportive family environment and we can't provide that."

Family environment, right. Over the last two weeks, he'd heard enough horror stories about disastrous placements and abusive foster parents from the other kids at the shelter to make him rule that out completely as an option. Under no circumstances was he letting Sam near Child Protective Services on his own.

So he stalled, hoping something would happen. Maybe if he had a little more time, Dad would come up with the bail somehow. Or Caleb would start answering his phone. Or the judge would decide Dad was innocent and just let him go, and things would go back to normal.

In the meantime, Sam wasn't handling it well.

"I hate it here," his brother informed him for the tenth time when they met up at lunch. "I want to go home. When are we leaving?"

"I'm working on a plan," he said, with as much confidence as he could muster. "We'll be out of here by the end of the week." That part, at least, was true.

"What if Dad gets out and comes looking for us? We're in Minneapolis now! How's he gonna find us?"

"He'll know we went to Pastor Jim's. Father Davis will tell him where we are."

"But what are we _doing_ here?" Sam's expression, resentful and angry, sent a pang of guilt stabbing through his chest. "Why can't we just go back to our apartment? We can wait there for Dad to come back."

Dean sighed. Sam still thought he could go back to the soccer team and class 6B.

Sixteen was a hell of a lot older than twelve.

He searched for some easy way to explain things to his brother. "We don't have money for the rent, Sam. Or the electricity or the food, or—"

"You could get a job, Dean! You're over sixteen."

But two weeks at Harbor House had been a quick education on living under the radar. He knew getting a legal job would mean using his social security number… which would tip off CPS. So would registering for school or trying to get medical treatment.

So instead of answering his brother, he tried to change the subject. "What's the matter, Sammy? Are the other kids bothering you?"

Sam scowled, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. "That's not it."

"Look, if anybody's getting on your case, let me know and I'll deal with them. You don't have to be scared of anybody."

The minute the words left his mouth, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Sam's eyes darkened and his jaw lifted stubbornly. "I know how to take care of myself," he snapped. "And I'm not _scared_."

But Dean knew he was lying.

He wasn't sure why. Sam didn't scare easily, and he could hold his own in a fight, thanks to their father's training. Maybe he was just freaked by hearing these street kids brag about where they'd been and what they'd done. Most of them were older, seventeen or eighteen, and they were a little rough.

He reached out a hand to his brother's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Relax. These hotshots couldn't make it through an hour of one of Dad's weekend drill sessions and you know it."

Sam shrugged off the touch, twisting out of range with an angry glare. "Forget it. I don't need you to protect me, I just want to _leave_." He grabbed his tray and headed toward the kitchen, not bothering to wait for Dean.

What hurt was that Sam wouldn't even look at him.

* * *

When he found his brother later that evening, bent over a dresser in one of the boys' bedrooms, all he could think was: _this is all my fault_.

Sam had been on his own all afternoon, and Dean hadn't chased him down, thinking he needed to blow off some steam. But when his brother hadn't shown up for dinner, he decided to go looking for him.

It was the closed door that first alerted him to the fact that something was wrong. There were four large bedrooms on the second floor, and the House rule was that doors always stayed open. A muffled sound from behind the door had him moving in that direction without thinking twice.

When he stepped inside the room, horror left him momentarily speechless. His brother was shoved against the dresser with one of the older boys—Taylor, his mind supplied, a sullen 18-year-old from St. Paul—pressed against him, holding his hands behind his back. Sam's jeans and underwear were pushed down around his ankles, and a piece of fabric was stuffed in his mouth, stifling his cries as he struggled.

"What the _hell_," Dean snarled, and then Dad's training kicked in.

His forearm was wrapped around Taylor's throat from behind before he was even aware he was doing it. He pressed down against the boy's windpipe in a chokehold and dragged him backwards off Sam, then threw him down and began pounding into him with his fists.

He was consumed by rage, on fire with it, as if his skin couldn't contain his fury and the only way to relieve it was to hit something—_Taylor_—over and over again.

"You miserable little pervert!" he spit. "You're dead, man. That's… my… little… _brother_!" He punctuated each word with a punch, feeling the satisfying crunch of the boy's nose breaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam straightening his clothes and wiping his eyes.

_Ohgodohgod, how far did this go?_

He kept up the attack until Taylor was curled into a ball, covered in blood and whimpering. Then he stood up, aimed a final, vicious kick at his ribs—"Shut the fuck _up_, you piece of shit," he hissed when the other boy moaned—and turned to his brother.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked, then cringed at the sound of his own words. Of course he wasn't okay.

Sam's eyes were rimmed with tears, but he nodded.

"Did he…?" He couldn't get the words out, couldn't even phrase the question. It made his stomach churn just to think it. Sam was _twelve_, just a kid, for God's sake.

His brother shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. His cheeks and ears were flushed with shame.

Damn it. There was probably a right way to handle this kind of situation, but he had no idea what it was.

Reaching out a cautious hand, he brushed his brother's hair out of his eyes, where the sweaty strands clung to his forehead. He bent down slightly so he was at eye level with Sam. "Did he hurt you, Sammy?"

"No." It came out in a whisper.

"Tell me the truth," he persisted. "I need to know. It's okay, you can tell me."

"He didn't…" Sam paused. "He didn't _do_ anything. Not yet." His voice broke on the last word, and that was when Dean understood that beating up Taylor might have helped _him_, but nothing he did could make up for what his brother had just been through.

He glanced back down at Taylor, his gaze fixing on the fly of his faded jeans: unbuttoned, but only partly unzipped.

Not rape, at least. But almost as bad.

His words from their earlier conversation replayed themselves in his mind, like the script from a bad movie.

_If anybody's getting on your case, let me know and I'll deal with them. You don't have to be scared of anybody._

Some protector he'd turned out to be.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "God, I'm so sorry."

Sam shrugged and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "'s not your fault."

But it was, and the wave of shame and guilt that engulfed him made it hard to breathe. He was disgusted with himself, for his indecision, for his stalling, for his ridiculous hope that his father would miraculously appear or that somebody would rush in and save them, would take them away from this situation and fix everything.

Nobody was coming. That was the bitter truth, and it was about time he recognized it. Dad was in jail, nobody was coming to help, and it was up to him and him alone to take care of the two of them.

Well, now he had an _action plan_, all right. Gloria would have been proud of him.

* * *

It was after midnight by the time they hitched their way back to Blue Earth.

They walked the final mile along Route 169 back to St. John's, not saying much. Dean walked in front, carrying both their bags, Sam stumbling along just behind him.

The Impala was right where they left it, in the parking lot behind the rectory. The contents of the trunk seemed untouched, and the white envelope with their cash was still stuffed in the glove compartment behind the maps.

He slid into the front seat with a grateful sigh, breathing in the familiar smells of leather and leftover fries. Sam climbed in next to him, closed the door, and curled onto his side, resting his head against the window. The sight of his brother's hunched form was an accusation.

He reached back and grabbed one of the pillows and a blanket. "You go to sleep, Sammy," he said gently, tucking the blanket around him. "We've got a long drive ahead of us."

"Where are we going?" Sam's voice was quiet and tight and hopeless.

A muscle in Dean's jaw twitched and his fingers flexed around the steering wheel. But he kept the rage out of his voice. "Back to Wisconsin."

_Watch out for Sammy. You're in charge. _How many times had Dad told him that when he was younger?

Everything was suddenly so clear.

They rode along in silence for a while, while James Taylor sang a lullaby about a cowboy. The music was soothing and lyrical, and Sam snuggled into the pillow and closed his eyes.

"Just rest. I'm gonna take care of you. Don't worry about anything."

He let the words of the song and the rumble of the engine wash over him, lulling him into relaxation.

"I've got this," he said aloud, even though Sam was already asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

A few days after they got back to Wisconsin, they found a small article about Dad in the _Elkhorn Independent._

ELKHORN – A local resident convicted of a felony count of damaging a cemetery and a lesser charge of carrying a concealed weapon will spend a year in prison.

John Winchester, 46, of the Elkhorn Commons Apartments, pleaded guilty on April 29th. Walworth County Judge Frank McClain accepted his plea.

Elkhorn police reported that although the man originally claimed to be innocent, fingerprints lifted from a bottle of lighter fluid that was apparently used to burn the bones of a corpse were found to match Winchester's prints. The man offered no explanation for his actions.

Winchester will serve his sentence at the Racine Correctional Institution in Sturtevant, a minimal-security facility.

* * *

He sent a letter to his father the next day, care of Racine Correctional Institution.

_Don't worry about us,_ he wrote. _Pastor Jim's out of the country and we can't get hold of Caleb, but I'm taking care of everything. Sammy and I are fine. We're together and that's what's important. We'll be here when you get out._

It was a short letter. There wasn't much to say, because they were still living in the car and eating through their supply of cash, so he didn't go into detail about how exactly he was taking care of everything. He figured his father just needed to know they were okay.

He wrote Pastor Jim too.

_Dear Pastor Jim, How's Costa Rica? Sam and I are fine, but just so you know, Dad's been arrested and sentenced to a year in prison for grave desecration. Pretty bad luck, huh? Father Davis told us you're on sabbatical, but when you get back, _

He wasn't able to continue.

He tore that letter up.

* * *

On Sam's birthday, May 2nd, they watched _Village of the Damned_ and then went bowling. Both of them turned out to be terrible bowlers, but they laughed a lot and Dean clowned around for his brother, sending the ball into the gutter on purpose and then following it up with a lucky strike. They got Chinese takeout and Dean let his brother have both fortune cookies. Sam seemed genuinely happy, and it eased the painful stab of guilt in him, just a little.

The whole evening cost $26.50. They had $535 left.

Dean kept that information to himself.

* * *

Sam was different.

It was evident in the restlessness of his sleep, in the way he ducked under the blanket when he was changing clothes in the backseat of the Impala, in the sullen gloom that had become his default mood. Sometimes Dean caught him staring off into space and then coming back to himself with a sudden shudder, as if he was shaking himself out of some unpleasant daydream. Once in a while he'd catch of flicker of some emotion he couldn't identify in his brother's gaze, painful and smoldering, and then he'd shut down again.

It wasn't that Dean really wanted to talk about what happened back in that bedroom, but he could feel the silence growing between them. He couldn't shake the memory of his brother bent over and struggling, and the shame in his eyes when it was over. Every time he saw Sam flinch away from the brush of his fingers on his shoulder, it only reminded him that he hadn't been there to protect him. Guilt was becoming a familiar emotion where his brother was concerned.

Sam had every reason to be angry and bitter, but he didn't seem to be, and that just made things worse. Dean would have understood if Sam hated him now for dragging him to that place and not getting him out sooner. He'd have been more than willing to forgive a tirade of fury, but Sam didn't lay into him or throw resentful glares in his direction when he thought Dean wasn't looking.

He just accepted whatever Dean told him—_We're gonna get some hot dogs from that stand_ or _How about we hang out in the park for a few hours_—with a passive cooperation that was driving Dean crazy. He kept waiting for the inevitable _Stop telling me what to do_, but the most he ever got was a sigh and a mumbled "Whatever."

He knew it was a façade, and Sam was bottling up all the rage and shame. It wasn't healthy and it wasn't letting him heal, but he was clueless about how to fix it. John had never been much of a role model for this sort of thing (_Suck it up, son, and stop complaining or you'll be running extra laps tomorrow_) and Dean didn't know how to do the kind of sharing-and-caring that Oprah and Sally Jessy Raphael seemed to think solved everything.

So he did the only thing he could think of: he pretended everything was normal. He teased and joked around and played stupid pranks. He blasted Metallica and Zeppelin whenever they drove anywhere. He threw jibes and insults at his brother. He did everything he could to provoke him into a reaction that would widen the cracks in his mask, but the most he ever got was a lopsided half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Sam would snap out of it eventually, he told himself.

* * *

Their first real break came from Dad, to his surprise. Or rather, from his research.

Dean had taken to flipping through John's journal, reading bits and pieces here and there. It felt almost taboo. His father hadn't actually forbidden him to read it, but he'd made it clear Dean should stay away from it. _You'll read it when the time comes, son. When you're ready. Believe me, you'll know when. And until then, it's off limits._

Well, now he was in charge for the foreseeable future, so he proclaimed himself officially _ready_.

The journal was a disappointment. Or rather, an enigma. There were no brilliant pieces of advice to be had, and no clear narrative, either. It was full of runes and symbols, stick figure drawings and more detailed sketches of a variety of creepy-looking creatures, old newspaper clippings of weird or violent deaths, and in between, John's notes on his hunts. It was less of a journal than a how-to manual.

But it wasn't particularly helpful to him and Sam, since they had no plans to hunt a wendigo, whatever that was, and they didn't need to know how to treat lycanthropy. In fact, some of it was so bizarre he had to wonder if his Dad hadn't been coming unhinged.

The interesting thing was, it turned out Dad knew more hunters than Pastor Jim and Caleb. Someone named Bill featured in a few of the earlier entries, there was a Deacon and an Elkins, and…

…Bobby. Bobby was mentioned five or six times in entries from the late eighties. _Bobby found a ritual that might work. Bobby's got a set of ancient texts in Aramaic. Bobby and I went up to the Roadhouse. Bobby agreed to take the boys for a few weeks so I can head out to California with Bill._

The name rang a bell. There was a memory there, but he couldn't quite get to it. Somebody he'd known when he was seven or eight. The name was connected to a vague impression of a gruff voice and a baseball, but he couldn't pin a face to it.

There was no phone number, no address. So, dead end.

For lack of something better to do, he pulled out the somewhat-crumpled bunch of papers and clippings he'd shoved into his backpack weeks ago.

_Might as well find out more about the Beast of Bray Road_. Who knew, maybe he'd get some insight into Dad's thought processes, learn how he did his research and tracked the creature. Maybe when Dad came back, he'd be so impressed with his self-taught skills he'd let him take point on the next hunt.

Right.

Still, he spread the papers out all over the back seat, and he and Sam—who was bored out of his mind too—tried to make sense of it.

They started with newspaper clippings from the early nineties: eyewitness accounts of a terrifying, bear-sized creature that howled like a wolf and could run faster than a man.

"Listen to this," Sam said, sounding a little unnerved. "This woman saw it on Bray Road a few years ago. _ʻIt was hairy and standing on two legs, looking at me with large, glowing eyes. I jumped into the car and locked the door. I never saw anything move so fast. It was by the side of the car just as I slammed the door. When its nails hit the metal, it sounded like someone scraping the car with a steel rake_.' Wild, huh?"

Yikes.

The creature apparently didn't stay put, either. John had police reports of mauled and mutilated animal carcasses—dogs, chickens, even horses—from Delavan up to Elkhorn and East Troy.

Things got sketchy from there. Dad's notes were a barely decipherable mess, a jumble of shorthand phrases and illegible scribbles that obviously weren't meant for anyone else to read.

Sam found a page with dates and calculations, which they eventually figured out had to do with the lunar cycle. "It's not a werewolf," Dean said, frustrated. "He told me that much." He put that page aside.

He scrutinized a page with drawings of wolf-like animals which his father had labeled: _gray wolf, timber wolf, coyote_. "Says here Dad interviewed somebody from the WFWS, whatever that is."

"The Wisconsin Fish and Wildlife Service," Sam said with a shrug, as if to say: _obviously, duh._ "I had to do a project on an endangered species and I read one of their pamphlets."

Dean rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, don't say things like that out loud," he groaned. "You are _such_ a nerd."

"Who's gonna hear me?" Sam looked pointedly at the empty cars nearby. They were in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly. "I guess Dad was asking about wild animals in the area. What's a _coywolf_?"

Dean couldn't resist. "A bashful wolf, obviously," he said, straight-faced. He looked at his brother expectantly, but Sam just shook his head and frowned down at the page again. "Aw, come _on_, Sammy, lighten up a bit," he prodded. "That was a joke."

"A _dumb_ joke."

Dean stifled a sigh. Sam seemed to have left his sense of humor back in Minneapolis.

He pulled his focus back to the hunt. As near as they could figure out, a coywolf was a coyote-wolf hybrid, but John didn't seem to think it had anything to do with the animal mutilations. "Too small to take down a horse," Sam pointed out.

Dad had also ruled out something called a _chupacabra_. That was a relief, because the sketch in his journal was downright hideous, with spines sticking out its back and a set of vicious-looking fangs.

"This stuff about a skunk doesn't make any sense," Dean muttered, a little later. "There's no way a skunk could kill a horse. Dad must've gotten a little off track."

Sam squinted at the page. The light was fading. "It's an _h_, not a _k_. _Shunka_. It's mentioned here too"—he pointed to a photocopied journal article—"and there's something about Indians... Dad says here that he needs some book at the University of Wisconsin library, but—"

"Hang on." Dean was scanning another page, covered in symbols and what looked like weird lettering. The notation at the bottom, at least, was clear. "Listen to this: _Sigils and signs found in abandoned house off Bray Road._"

"So what, Dean, this is more interesting. The _shunka warakin_'s supposed to be a kind of ferocious wolf, it kills dogs and other animals, and according to Dad, it's always—"

"Sam. You're not listening." He waited until his brother had raised his eyes from his page and granted him an impatient look. "There's an _abandoned house_ just outside Elkhorn. Dad's been there, already checked it out."

He could see the moment when the information registered in his brother's brain. "Oh," Sam said, then: "_Oh_…"

"Exactly," Dean said triumphantly. "We're going house hunting."

* * *

They moved in the next afternoon.

Actually, "moving in" was more of a euphemism. They took their duffels inside and put them on the floor, which was filthy.

And "abandoned house" didn't really tell the story, either. It was more of a primitive shack, and while it wasn't occupied, it wasn't much of a shelter, either. It was just one open room with a couple of windows—glass panes all broken—and a rough-hewn door. There was no plumbing and no electricity.

The walls were covered with symbols, drawings, and writing in some language he couldn't identify. They looked old, the paint—_Could it be blood?_—faded and flaking away in parts. _Sigils and signs_, his father had called them, and they were downright disturbing as wall decorations.

But hey, the place had potential. Anyway, it was a hell of a lot better than the car, which was unbearably stuffy during the day and cramped at night.

It was secluded, hidden in the woods and far enough back from the road that it had taken them most of the morning to find it. They couldn't even drive the Impala anywhere near it, so they parked the car at the edge of a clearing about a quarter mile away.

"See, Sammy?" Dean grinned. "Home sweet home. We'll fix it up good, and we can hang out here all summer." _And maybe longer._

Sam looked unconvinced. "There's no bathroom."

"Plenty of trees out back, princess," Dean told him, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. "It's a little rustic, that's all."

"Where are we gonna shower?"

They'd been making do with wiping themselves down with paper towels in public restrooms, but even Dean had to admit they were both starting to look pretty unkempt. If they wanted to pull this off, they couldn't afford to draw attention to themselves by looking like a couple of waifs.

"We'll rough it," he said flatly. "It'll be like camping. I'll fix the windows and you can make curtains and embroider a sign that says _Home Sweet Home_."

Sam scowled. "Jerk."

"Bitch," he shot back, smirking when his brother huffed in frustration.

"Whatever. But can we buy some real food at least? If I have to eat one more peanut butter sandwich, I'm going to puke."

"Sure," he agreed. Sam was probably right; their nutrition had gotten pretty awful and they hadn't been training, either. "If you want, we can buy a cooler. We'll get some ice and it'll be like having a refrigerator."

Sam smiled at that.

* * *

A month later, they were settled in.

A stop at Wal-Mart and then Ace Hardware in Delavan got them more or less everything they needed: two airbeds and sleeping bags, plywood boards to cover the gaping hole in the roof and a poly tarp for the windows, kerosene lanterns, some cooking utensils and a simple propane stove, a broom, a couple of five gallon containers for water, and some other essentials.

They solved the hygiene issue easily enough. Every few days they'd drive down to one of the campgrounds around Lake Como or Delavan Lake, pay the day visitor fee—or sneak in, if they could—and use the bathhouse. The showers were hot and clean, if they used them early enough in the day.

Entertaining themselves was a bigger problem. In fact, it was _the_ biggest issue between them. Within a week, Sam had already finished working his way through his schoolbooks and they'd explored the woods all around the shack. Dean tried to keep busy, but he was so bored he'd finished his Vonnegut book and even _The Hobbit_ too. They had nothing to do but gripe at each other, and Dean was beginning to understand why his father used to get pissed off and send them out to run laps until they were too tired to do anything but fall into bed.

Then they discovered Saturday garage sales.

They'd get the local paper from one of the surrounding towns and spend Saturday mornings going from sale to sale. They bought books, balls, and mostly-complete board games for next to nothing, all the luxuries Dad had never allowed them to keep because they took up too much room in their duffels. They stocked up on kitchen supplies, and even splurged on a couple of beat-up chairs and a card table for $10. Best part was, no one thought twice about seeing a couple of parentless teenagers haggling for bargains.

Dean wrote another letter to his father, not going into detail—because who knew, maybe the prison authorities would open his dad's letter and come looking for them—but letting him know things were under control.

_We've got a good place to stay now, and we're fixing it up. It's a little like camping, but better. Wish we had air conditioning though. The car's running fine too, in case you were wondering. So don't worry._

They trained in the mornings, shopped for the day's food—no more fast food treats, because they were on a budget—and hung out for the rest of the day, playing Monopoly and card games, listening to songs and ball games on their battery-run vintage radio (_Bargain Bin! $1 Each!_). They didn't snipe at each other much. It was kind of like a vacation.

Things were looking up.

Except they were running out of cash, fast.

* * *

"I'm going up to Milwaukee for a few days," Dean announced in the second week of June, while they were playing Scrabble in the evening. Sam was trouncing him. "I can get some day work there with the Latinos."

Sam frowned, not looking up from the board. "You should try to get work around here first. And _gonna_ isn't a word."

"You say it all the time. So do I."

Sam shrugged. "It's not in the dictionary. Slang doesn't count." His brother finally had his own Merriam-Webster Dictionary (published in 1959 and missing the back cover, but Sam didn't seem to care). Dean had caught him reading it page by page more than once, the little geek.

"No one would hire a sixteen-year-old without papers in this area. I can't take the chance of someone reporting me." He took away _gonna_ and made _nag_ instead, for five measly points.

"But how will you know where to get work?"

"One of the guys back at the shelter was from Milwaukee," he explained. "He told me how to get work. I can join a construction crew, no problem."

Actually, Luis had told him how to work in Minneapolis, but he figured it couldn't be much different in any major city.

Sam made _accrue_, which was apparently both a real word and spelled correctly. It was also a triple word score, and Dean gave up.

He drove up to Milwaukee at dawn. By six thirty he was in the parking lot of a shabby Home Depot, joining about thirty other young men mulling around, waiting for work offers.

It didn't take him long to realize he was the youngest one there. The other guys all looked bulkier and sturdier, and most of them were either Latinos or African Americans. They stood around in clusters, laughing and joking with each other, but every time a contractor drove up, it became serious business. They flocked around the pick-up trucks, shouting and elbowing their way forward. Sometimes the whole transaction was conducted in Spanish.

He didn't stand a chance.

By ten, only a dozen or so had scored jobs, and most of the others had started walking away. Meat market was over for the day.

He didn't give up, spending the rest of that first day going to business after business, looking for someone who'd give him a few hours' work. Most of them just asked him to fill out an application, but he finally found a harried car wash owner who was willing to hire him for the afternoon. Four dollars an hour plus tips.

By the end of the day he'd earned the price of one tank of gas.

The next morning he was better prepared. He was at Home Depot by six, and this time he stood on the sidewalk, not in the parking lot, so he could run up more quickly to the pick-ups as they came in. Some of the laborers from yesterday seemed to remember him, calling out, _Hey, little buddy_ and other things in Spanish which he was pretty sure weren't complimentary. He just smiled and waved at them, hoping they'd give him a break and take him along if they got work.

They didn't.

By mid-morning he'd given up. He went into Home Depot and picked up a cheap cooler, then walked over to the 7-Eleven and bought two bags of ice and some soft drinks. He spent the rest of the day walking around the neighborhood, selling sodas and snacks. By evening his hands were blistered from the cooler's plastic handle and his back ached, but he'd made close to fifty dollars. He was encouraged, but it was still too little and too slow. Sam was expecting him back tomorrow night, or the next night at the latest.

A thunderstorm blew in early the next morning and ruined everything. It poured all morning and then continued in off-and-on showers for the rest of the day.

No one was hiring at Home Depot. He wasted ten bucks on drinks and sandwiches he couldn't sell.

He sat in the Impala that evening with a sense of impending doom hanging over him. He was miserable, chilled all the way through, and his skin was chafed from trudging all over the neighborhood in his wet jeans. His throat was swollen and he was starting to feel congested.

And still broke.

Sam was waiting for him, but forty bucks wouldn't be enough to get them through the next two weeks, let alone the next month. He couldn't go back and tell his brother he'd failed.

_Deal with it_, his father had told him often enough. _You're the oldest and you're responsible._

There was a fairly easy solution at hand, and he knew it. He'd learned all about this at Harbor House too.

* * *

The next morning he didn't bother with Home Depot. He found a goodwill shop and bought himself a clean shirt that was a little too tight, then went to a drugstore for supplies. He cruised around the city for an hour, scoping out the shadier neighborhoods, the ones with the adult book stores and seedy shops.

It was just a way to make some quick money. No big deal.

It was fine.

But he was sweating so badly that night when he got into the car with the first customer, the guy looked concerned. "You all right, kid? Got a fever or something?"

The way he smiled at Dean's automatic "No, sir" sent a hot blush over his cheeks.

He tried not to think about what he was doing, but the sensations registered with maddening sharpness. The awkward press of his knees against the back seat of the car. The sour smell of sweat and stale urine. The way the man rocked his head back and forth, controlling his movements and pulling him off balance. His jaw ached from being held open so widely, but when he tried to pull off for a minute, he got a growl and a "Take it all the way, kid, a little deeper, that's it, that's good."

The grip on his hair tightened and the man started thrusting in earnest. "Relax your throat," he said in a soft, gruff voice, but Dean still gagged when the head hit the back of his throat. The vein on the underside of the man's cock started to pulse, hot and fast, and his mouth filled with his salty, thick come.

The taste lingered in his mouth, and his throat felt slimy.

But it was twenty bucks, for a few minutes' work.

He felt numb.

* * *

The second night was both easier and harder. Easier because he was better able to detach himself from the situation, because his technique had improved and he didn't gag as much, because he had a wad of crumpled bills in the glove compartment of the Impala and he could focus on that.

It was harder because he knew he had to leave the next morning, and he was more desperate. He'd already gone beyond the deadline he'd set for Sam, and he could imagine his brother getting more and more frantic, wondering if something had happened to Dean and if he was ever coming back.

"What're you offering, kid?" It was a younger guy this time, mid-thirties, leaning out the window of a shiny Chrysler sedan, smiling disarmingly.

"How much you got?" Dean asked, without flinching.

If the john knew it was his first time, he didn't let on. Dean wanted to say something—if nothing else, he could probably have asked for a higher price and some consideration—but his throat seemed to have closed up.

_Just get through it_, he thought. _It'll be over in a few minutes._

He knew he was supposed to relax, and tensing up wouldn't make this any easier, but he couldn't help it. He pressed his hands against the cold brick of the building, keeping his breathing shallow, trying to keep out the stench of the trash bins in the alley.

He shut his eyes when his cheeks were spread and a probing finger touched him in his most secret spot. He'd never felt so exposed and ashamed. It was hard not to squirm in embarrassment, but he held himself still.

He was doing this for Sam. They needed the money to survive.

He'd known enough to lube himself up ahead of time, but when the head of the cock breached him, holy _fuck_, it really hurt. The pain was sharp and intense, and he pushed the back of his hand into his mouth instinctively, not wanting to cry out. But he couldn't help mumbling against his hand _Wait, wait, slow down_, because the man wasn't wasting any time, thrusting in without letting him adjust to the stretch.

He didn't stop, of course, because Dean wasn't really saying anything clearly. He was probably interpreting Dean's muted groans as encouragement, if he was listening at all. Dean could feel drops of sweat breaking out on his forehead and on the back of his neck. He was yelling _stopstopstop_ in his mind, because if he could just get a breath and adjust to the stretch he'd be okay. But every time the guy thrust forward, opening him up another inch, his muscles seized against the searing pain and it was all he could do not to cry out.

After a minute, though, his body seemed to open up. The pain suddenly eased to a dull ache, and he shuddered in relief and relaxed, only belatedly realizing how much he had been fighting the intrusion. He could breathe again, think again. It wasn't really so bad. His ass still felt overly full and sore, but it was manageable. He even let himself push back a little against the man's thrusts, which drew a moan of pleasure from his partner.

Afterward, his legs were shaky and his muscles felt achy and tender, like he'd just finished one of his dad's training sessions.

He knew he'd crossed a line, punted himself right off the playing field of _normal_. Dad could never find out, and neither could Sam. His plan was to shove this entire experience into a box labeled _Milwaukee_ and never, ever open it again.

Yet truth be told, he felt a certain satisfaction in what he'd done. They needed money, and his options were limited. It was either this or stealing, and all things considered, turning tricks was safer. He wasn't a wimp; he could take a little physical discomfort.

He shivered. There was a chill in the air and his shirt was thin.

Time to find another paying customer.

* * *

When he finally hiked back to the shack the next morning, Sam shouted out a relieved greeting and ran up to meet him, so he smiled for his brother and tried to quicken his step. He felt exhausted, as if his legs were too heavy. But he had a good wad of cash in his pocket, and that made it all worth it.

Sam nearly knocked him over in a bear hug. "What took you so long? God, Dean, I thought something happened to you! Why didn't you come back yesterday?"

"The money was good," he said with a wan smile. "Really good. Construction. Didn't want to turn it down, so I stayed a little longer than I planned."

Sam was looking at him worriedly as they walked into the shack. "You look like crap."

"Of course I do," he growled. "Didn't sleep all night. There was a rush job on this housing development so we worked through. Got double pay, though."

Sam looked at him doubtfully for a long moment, as if he wasn't completely buying it. "What's wrong with your voice? Are you sick?"

He nodded, sinking into one of the chairs, too tired to stay on his feet. His throat was wrecked, sore and swollen, and he felt feverish. "I think I'm coming down with something," he said, folding his arms onto the table and laying his head on top. "The flu, maybe."

"We should get some tea and canned soup. And other stuff. We don't have much left here." Sam looked apologetic, and Dean's chest constricted. His brother was hungry. Well, at least now they could afford some real food, not the day-old-marked-down-bread and bologna sandwiches they'd been surviving on for the past two weeks.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. We'll go hit a supermarket in a little bit."

"But you should sleep first. It can wait."

He just needed to rest for an hour or so, and he'd be fine. "Didja manage okay while I was gone?" he mumbled, closing his eyes.

"Uh… yeah, mostly. It was fine."

Something in the way his brother hesitated seemed a little _off_, and he grudgingly opened his eyes again, looking at Sam impatiently. "What?"

"We can talk about it later. You should get some rest." Sam sounded determined, but there was a line of tension in his jaw and he wouldn't meet Dean's gaze.

"Just tell me."

"It's…" Sam paused, biting the corner of his lip. "It was only a problem at night, and I didn't hear it last night anyway, so it's probably gone."

"_What_ was only a problem at night?"

"There was some kind of animal here. A wild animal."

Dean nodded, shutting his eyes again. _Get a grip, Sammy, we live in the woods. _"Probably a coyote or a raccoon, that's all."

There was a pause. "I don't think so…"

"Sam," he groaned. "Just spit it out."

"You have to come see."

With a sigh, he got to his feet and followed his brother out of the shack. Sam closed the door behind them and pointed wordlessly.

It looked like the shack had been assaulted by a raging saber-toothed tiger.

The bottom and sides of the door were scratched with deep claw marks as if some kind of aggressive animal had been trying to get in… and then went batshit crazy, throwing itself at the door, again and again. The metal door handle was knocked to one side, practically ripped off. How could _one_ animal have done so much damage?

Sam showed him the same kind of marks by one of the windows and further up the back wall: dozens of deep parallel scrapes, one or two inches deep. The plastic tarp covering the window panes had been ripped to shreds in places, flapping free in the wind. The sheer ferocity of the attack was staggering.

"Holy shit, Sam," Dean breathed. "What the hell _was_ it? Did you see it?"

"It was the middle of the night, and honestly"—Sam shuddered—"I didn't want to get too close to the window. After it tore through the tarp, it tried to stick one of its paws inside, and I could see it pretty clearly. It looked like a bear paw to me, all hairy with these long, sharp claws."

"There are black bears in some parts of Wisconsin," Dean said doubtfully. "Maybe it was looking for food." _Right, and then it decided to tear the door off its hinges._

Sam shook his head. "Black bears aren't aggressive and they're not that big. We learned about them in school. Besides, this one was _howling_, over and over. Like a wolf."

Jesus. His stomach twisted guiltily as he tried to imagine his brother, alone and terrified, listening to some wild animal attacking the doors and windows, its claws scraping the wood over and over. Sam must have been scared out of his mind.

After a minute, he managed to find his voice. "How'd you get rid of it?"

Sam gave him an incredulous look. "How did _I_ get rid of it? I _didn't_. What was I supposed to do, anyway, stab it with a plastic fork? You took your knife with you, and everything else." He didn't say it like an accusation, just a statement of fact.

Shit, it's true, Dean realized, with a wrench of horror. He'd left his brother unarmed and completely defenseless, and driven away with all their weapons in the trunk of the Impala. It had never even occurred to him to leave his brother a knife or a gun. God, he was so stupid.

John would kill him, if he knew.

Add that to the list of things he was never going to tell Dad.

"So… what did you do, then?" he asked, his mind still ringing with _myfaultmyfault _and _ohmygodwhatif_.

Sam sighed. "I was sure it was coming in through the window, but then it just kind of jerked back and went away. I don't know why, maybe it was because of—"

"—the salt," Dean finished, his mind racing. "You laid down the salt lines, right?" Sam nodded. "It's a deterrent to demonic spirits…"

Was that what this had been? A _demon_? "Fuck, Sam. Did you find any tracks?"

Sam shook his head. "It was raining too hard that night. Nothing but mud in the morning. I checked. It's Dad's creature, isn't it? We're not that far from Bray Road…"

"Maybe," he answered, thinking: _probably_.

Christ, this was the last thing they needed right now.

* * *

Back inside, Dean tried to think.

If the creature could be stopped by salt, they'd at least be able to protect themselves against it. They'd just have to make sure their salt lines were secure.

But all that meant was they'd be holing themselves up in the shack, night after night, while a ferocious bear-wolf-thing with sharp claws laid siege to their doors and windows, howling and snarling.

And then in the morning, they could play checkers and read Dickens.

They should leave. He knew that. A howling, slashing, half-crazed creature assaulting their home wasn't exactly the welcome wagon. But the thought of going back to living in the car was making his guts twist. It was nearly summer, getting hotter every day, and the Impala would be a furnace.

And they'd burn through his hard-earned money (_paid for in sweat and tears_) like it was tissue paper. Lose-lose all around.

If Dad were here, what would he do?

He'd never sit around waiting to be attacked, that was for sure. John would be on the tail of this creature so fast its head would still be spinning when he hacked it off its hairy shoulders. He'd hunt it down and kill it, and that would be that. His journal was a blow-by-blow account of how he'd done that to a hundred other evil creatures.

Dean was fairly certain _Watch out for Sammy _didn't mean run away, or hide behind the salt lines. Dad had raised them to be hunters and that was what they were supposed to be, damn it.

Even if they were on their own.

A niggling voice at the back of his head was telling him that his father would never have wanted them to deal with something like this by themselves, that he wasn't convinced Dean was responsible enough even to use the microfiche at the local library, that Sam had never even been on a salt-and-burn. It was insane to think they could take on something like this by themselves.

But Dean squashed the voice, because things had changed now.

If John had really wanted to keep them protected, he sure as hell should have made a better contingency plan. He shouldn't have been such a damn loner, cutting them off from everyone else, leaving them no one to turn to in a crisis. He should have left Dean a better legacy than a car full of contraband weapons and the Winchester Guide to Ganking the Supernatural.

Dad should have been here, taking care of them, or he should have made sure someone else would.

So, Dad could just keep his mouth shut, as far as Dean was concerned. Over the past few months, he'd had to grow up fast, doing whatever he needed to do (_can't think about that_) to keep them safe and fed.

And now he was going to keep his brother safe by hunting this creature down.

He pushed his exhaustion aside and stood up. He was too wired to sleep now, anyway. "Okay, Sammy, let's go do the shopping."

Sam nodded. "And we should stop by a drugstore, get you some Advil."

"We'll go to the laundromat too."

"Good idea, but we should go to one of the bathhouses first. We both need a shower, and"—Sam wrinkled his nose—"you, uh, smell kinda bad."

He felt his cheeks heat. God knew he wanted a shower, but just the thought of _why_ he needed one so badly brings made him think about things he'd been viciously repressing. "I've been sweating on a construction gig for three days, what do you expect?"

Sam looked at him for a minute, then said, "You don't smell sweaty. You smell… kind of funky. You been working on a sewage line, or something?"

"Fuck off," he snarled. "I've been making money, that's what's important."


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four **

It came back five nights later, with a hair-raising growl that made them both snap bolt upright.

They heard its approach, the crackling of twigs and branches and an odd snuffling, grunting sound. Dean was sitting with his brother against the back wall in the dark, both of them silent and wide-eyed, straining to hear every sound. He had his father's sawed-off double-barrel shotgun in one hand and his Bowie in the other, and Sam was holding the .45. The doors and windows were sealed with a double ring of rock salt.

Even so, when the creature started its attack, it was fucking _terrifying_. The sheer force of the blows against the door made him wonder whether the wood was simply going to buckle under its weight. The creature kicked and scraped at the door and windows but, thankfully, didn't try to reach inside.

It was clearly angry, throwing itself against the walls of the shack, time and time again, as if it was trying to literally burst its way in. From the way the walls shook and rattled, the creature must have been huge, heavy enough to make the boards bend inward with the battering.

The assault continued for a good twenty minutes, punctuated every few minutes by a howl that sent a panicky shiver down his spine. Neither of them dared to move or make the slightest noise.

Dean was beginning to think the walls were going to cave in when, suddenly, it stopped. After a moment, they heard the creature loping away, moving swiftly back into the woods.

They kept still for another minute, then Sam let out a shaky breath. "Do you think it's gone?" he whispered.

Dean nodded slowly. "I think it knows it can't get in, so yeah, it probably—"

There was a frantic yelp from outside, and they froze. They could hear another creature—a dog?—growling, barking, and hissing, and the muffled sounds of twigs and leaves being trampled. Then another high-pitched yelp, a whimper, a harsh grunt… and then nothing.

Neither of them got any sleep after that.

In the morning they found the mauled carcass of a wolf, about a hundred yards from their shack. Its head had been ripped clear off its torso and carried off.

* * *

That afternoon, they boarded up the door and the windows, got in the car, and headed up to the University of Wisconsin at Madison.

A college town, Dean discovered, was a great place to hang out if you were homeless, once you'd swiped a legitimate student ID. The gym had a terrific locker room with showers, the cafeteria food was hot and cheap, and the campus was gorgeous and full of cute college girls. Not that he felt at all interested, actually (_What're you offering, kid?_) but still, it was nicer on the eyes than some of the places he'd been lately.

Sam lucked out too, because there were a couple of summer programs for junior high kids on campus and it was easy enough for him to blend in. "My brother's in the Fun with Chemistry Camp," Dean explained to the security guard at the library entrance. "He's a real science geek."

"Shut up," Sam mumbled, face reddening, completely in character.

The guard shook his head. "He can't come in without a visitor's pass and accompanied by an adult."

"We'll be in and out in five minutes," Dean said quickly. "I'll stay with him the whole time. He's supposed to look up something about… What was that again?" he asked, turning to Sam. "Uh, acids and bases?" He'd never paid much attention in science class but he remembered something about litmus paper.

Sam gave him his best _get-a-clue_ smartass look. "Crystals and polymers."

The guard shrugged, and Dean was about to give up and tell Sam to wait outside. The last thing they needed was unwanted attention.

But then Sam turned to the guard and said, in a pleading tone, "But I don't need to check the book out, I just need to look something up and it'll just take a minute. It's not really homework but our teacher recommended it, and our parents are coming to pick us up in a few minutes…"

Dean gave the guard a conspiratorial grin. "He's like this all the time. I keep trying to get him to toss a football around, but all he wants to do is read."

"That's because it's _interesting_," Sam huffed. "We did this experiment today with borax and pipe cleaners, to see how snowflakes are formed. You have to put the borax in boiling water because there's more room for the sodium borate crystals, and then when it cools, the crystals start forming on top of each other. It was really cool!" He was so earnest, the words bubbling forth in excitement, that Dean had to admit: the kid was a terrific actor. "And tomorrow when we come to camp, we're gonna—"

"Enough, kid," the guard protested with a half-smile, giving Dean a wink. "All right, five minutes, go find the book you need." He waved them through.

"Piece of cake," Sam said with a smug grin, when they were down the hall and safely out of earshot. "Everybody loves a science nerd."

"Don't lose yourself in the role, Doogie Howser," Dean told him. "Getting in the building's the easy part."

As it turned out, he was absolutely right. They got themselves settled in a nice quiet space on the third floor, but then discovered that half the information they needed wasn't even in the main library. Dean spent the better part of the day running all over campus, photocopying materials at the American Indian Studies Library, the Veterinary Medicine Reading Room, and the Rare Books and Manuscripts room at the Memorial Library, and trotting them back to Sam for perusal. It was a good division of labor, because Samdid, in fact, love to read, and Dean needed a lot of fresh air.

By late afternoon, they'd eliminated John's idea that it might be the _shunka warakin_. Sam managed to find a reference to it in an old journal article on the Ioway Indians. The name meant "carries off dogs," but from what they could tell, the _shunka_ wasn't supposed to be any bigger than a wolf or a hyena.

"Anyway, that thing sure didn't 'carry off' the wolf we saw," Dean pointed out. "It tore its head clear off."

Back to square one. They read a lot about something called an _amphicyonid_—a bear-dog—which was described as weighing up to 600 pounds, about the size of a grizzly bear, able to walk on its hind legs, and built for speed.

"That actually sounds like the Beast," Dean said thoughtfully, frowning. "Except…"

"…except for the fact that it's been extinct for about two million years," Sam finished. "Do you think maybe some of them survived? It says here they used to be found in northern Canada. It's pretty remote up there, not too many people."

"So, after a few million years, it just decides to come down to _Elkhorn_?" Dean scoffed. "Why, it wanted to try the burgers at Wendy's?"

Sam sighed. "Yeah, maybe not."

After another hour, Dean was ready to pitch a hissy fit. He was sick of being _shushed_ by snotty librarians, the dust was making him sneeze, and the artificial lighting in the stacks was beginning to give him a headache. If this was what his dad had had in mind when he grudgingly invited Dean to help him with research, it was just as well they'd never gotten around to it. Just another of John's tests he would probably have failed.

Sam, on the other hand, seemed perfectly happy to keep researching into the night. "Go back to the American Indian Studies library," he told Dean. "There's a book mentioned here, _Legends of the First Nations. _Something about the Nahanni Valley in Canada. See if you can find it."

He was beginning to suspect that his brother liked ordering him around for once. "Let's take a break, Sammy. Get some sandwiches or something."

"That library closes in an hour, Dean," his brother said in a tone of impatience. "We can eat later."

Grumbling, Dean grabbed the slip of paper with the call number Sam had scribbled on it and marched out. He was supposed to be in charge, for God's sake. He should have known the little dork would turn out to be a research freak.

He located the book in question and flipped through it to the chapter Sam was interested in. As he read, his mouth grew dry.

Bingo.

He didn't bother photocopying pages this time, just tucked the book under his shirt and walked out.

* * *

"That library was _amazing_," Sam enthused for the fifth time as they were driving back to Elkhorn the next morning. "We should go there, like, once a month or something."

"Why?" Dean asked dourly. "You planning on researching some other monster? One's enough for me, thanks."

"Of course not. But you could read about, I don't know, _anything_. History, architecture, astronomy…"

"Wow. Old buildings and outer space. Can't think of a better way to spend my time."

"Those are just examples, Dean. You can read about whatever interests you." Sam smirked, then added, "If you can find something that does."

Dean made a noncommittal noise and kept his face carefully expressionless, but it was a slap in the face. He knew part of it was just his brother's gleeful pride in finding something he was better at than his older brother, but still. He loved Sam, but the kid could be an insufferable intellectual snob and a conceited little bitch sometimes.

But there was a grain of truth in what he was implying, because Dean couldn't be less interested in spending his free hours sitting the library, reading about, well, _anything_, unless it was directly related to something he really wanted to know. Sam, though, had that spark of curiosity, a scholar's fascination with information, a need to expand his intellectual horizons. It was no surprise that his first visit to a university put him into a state of ecstasy.

Well, time to bring him back down to earth. "What _interests_ me is killing this bear-wolf thing that's been sniffing around our shack, Sammy."

"Right," Sam said with more than a touch of smug pride. "And _I'm_ the one who found the book. Don't forget that."

_Double bitch. _"Well, don't go giving yourself a medal just yet. Finding out what it's called is only the first step."

The fact was, it was a _crucial _first step. It was the key. Now they had a name for the creature: a _waheela_, from the Northwest Territories of Canada.

According to the book, the waheela appeared in legends of the Naha people of northwest Canada. It was the reason behind the gruesome nicknames for the Nahanni Valley: the Deadmen Valley, the Valley of No Return, the Headless Creek. An unknown evil lurking in the gorges and lakes that cast a sinister shadow over the gorgeous vistas.

"Dean…" Sam said quietly, after a minute. "What if we're wrong?"

"We're not." He was sure of this. "It's a waheela. The legend says it's a supernatural creature, bigger than a wolf, more like a bear, with sharp claws. It hunts alone and always at night. You saw what it did to that wolf… This thing comes from the Headless Valley."

"But we're in Wisconsin, not Canada. What's it doing down here?"

_Stalking us_, he thought with a flash of anger. "Who knows? Maybe it got lost."

"Yeah." Sam sighed and slumped back. "Okay, but you're right. We might know how to call it, but what we really need to know is how to kill it."

"We'll figure it out," he said, but what he meant was: _I'll_ figure it out, and then _I'll_ kill it.

* * *

Once they'd gotten back to the shack later that morning, they pulled out their father's journal. For the next two hours, they sat huddled over their rickety card table, shoulder to shoulder, looking for a clue.

_Nada._

No matter how many times they went back and forth through the journal, there was no mention of a waheela or the Nahanni Valley, no creature that specialized in decapitating or mauling animals. Page after page, their father detailed how he baited, trapped, or just stumbled upon the horror of the week and somehow managed to kill it, usually getting himself pretty banged up in the process. But there was nothing specifically about a creature like this.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see his brother frowning as he flipped through the pages, scribbling on page after page of notebook paper, as if the answer was somehow going to jump out at him if he took enough notes.

John's journal entries weren't too detailed, for the most part. They were sparse and matter-of-fact, unemotional except for the occasional blast of anger.

_The bitch went up in flames after I salted the bones and the cat's carcass too, for good measure…_

_...so I threw the iron poker down the well and felt a strange wind rustle through the house, but then everything was quiet._

_Wasn't sure it was a ghoul, but the silver bullets had no effect. Same with the consecrated rounds. Thank God Bill knew what he was doing; he grabbed the machete and chopped off the head, and that was that._

_Damn wendigo nearly ripped Bobby's arm out of its socket before I managed to hit it with the silver-tipped arrow. Good fucking riddance._

There was a specific antidote for every monster, from what he could tell. Each one had a vulnerability, but there was no guarantee that said monster wouldn't throw the hunter through a brick wall or take a juicy bite out of him before he discovered how to kill it. He'd had to help patch his father up enough times to know that skill and experience weren't always enough when they were dealing with the supernatural.

Then again, maybe they were overthinking this.

"Sammy, stop," he said, closing the journal with a thump that startled his brother out of his concentration and made him flinch. "We're making this more complicated than it has to be."

Sam gaped at him. "What are you talking about? There's _nothing_ here we can use, nothing's relevant, it's all different monsters and—"

"—and there's only about five or six ways you can kill 'em, seems to me. Look at your list."

Sam frowned at his notes. "If it's a werewolf you use a silver bullet. Or dismember it."

"What did he use on the chupacabra?"

"Consecrated iron rounds. The shtriga too."

Dean nodded. "Silver arrows for the wendigo."

"Silver for werewolves."

"Salting and burning for a poltergeist…"

They managed to narrow it down to six categories, in the end. Iron, holy water, salt, silver, fire, and decapitation and/or dismemberment. Silver, though, was the biggie. Sam did the statistics: out of seventy-four supernatural altercations mentioned in the journal, John had used silver forty-seven times. Over sixty percent.

As for the other techniques, Dean wasn't keen on either of them getting close enough to chop off the thing's head, and they didn't have any holy water. They couldn't sprinkle something the size of a grizzly bear with handfuls of rock salt. So, silver was their best bet.

Plus, Dad had left them more than enough silver bullets.

"Why don't we just try setting it on fire?" Sam asked. "We could, I dunno, throw a firecracker at it or something. We wouldn't even have to get that close."

"We live in the woods, Smoky. I don't think starting a fire would be such a great idea. And if the fire doesn't kill it, then it's burned and mad as hell, ready to chase us down." Not a pleasant thought.

"What if the silver doesn't work, Dean? Then it's been _shot_ and it's mad and running after us!"

"It'll work," he growled. _And if it doesn't, we make a run for the car and hope the clutch doesn't stick._

Thankfully, after a minute, Sam nodded as if he was accepting the plan, which was just as well, since Dean didn't have an alternative. "Okay," he said simply. "What next?"

Good question.

The truth was, he felt a giddy, ridiculous urge to celebrate. They'd just made a game plan for their first hunt. Somewhere in the woods, there was a waheela stomping around, not knowing its days were fucking _numbered_. It was exhilarating and scary as hell.

He wondered if his dad would be proud.

Probably not, he thought sourly. He could just imagine what John would say, if he could see him. _Your salt lines are sloppy. Those guns haven't been cleaned in over a week. You've got so many holes in your research I could drive a truck through them. For the love of God, Dean, you're supposed to be taking care of your brother, not exposing him to even more danger. _

If he was really honest with himself, he knew that if John had an inkling of what he was planning, he'd be absolutely, over-the-top furious. They had a half-baked plan made of guesswork and nerve, and there were a thousand things that could go wrong. If the waheela didn't kill him, his father'd probably finish the job himself. And then ground him for a year.

He didn't want to endanger Sam, not at all. But as for himself… There was a reckless, resentful part of him that didn't care. Or that welcomed it, just a little. He didn't want to look too closely at whatever it was inside him that was pushing him forward with this, but he couldn't deny it: a mixture of rock-bottom desperation and a tenacious anger that pushed all his hesitations aside.

_Bring it on, bitch. _

He was damaged already, so hunting down a ferocious monster would just be one more step toward… well, toward wherever he was heading.

Anyway, he had to make decisions, and from where he was standing, none of his options looked good. This plan at least gave them a chance, and if it worked, they could go back to their Little-House-in-the-Big-Woods life, playing board games and reading books (_until the money runs out again_) and waiting for John to get out.

He was a hunter. He'd done his research and he was ready. It was going to work. He'd seen his father do this a hundred times.

So, what's next? "We should go out," he told his brother. "Relax and have some fun. We don't have to sit here cowering in the corner. It's summer. Let's take a drive."

Sam considered, then looked up at him shyly. "I know where we could go."

* * *

An hour later, they were at Racine Correctional Institute.

They couldn't see much from the parking lot. It looked innocuous and plain, just a bunch of low-lying brick buildings and manicured lawns. But it was surrounded by a barbed wire fence, and there was a watchtower with a guard on every corner. Here and there they could see prisoners walking from building to building, dressed in orange uniforms.

"This place is ugly." Sam's lip curled in a grimace of disgust. "Dad must hate it here."

He laughed. "Dad doesn't care about esthetics. It's clean enough, looks like."

In the distance, a bell went off: a harsh, unpleasant sound that set his teeth on edge. It underscored how regimented his father's life must be now. Someone probably told him when to get up, where to go, and what to do, all day long. It must be torture for John, who'd always made his own rules and made those decisions for himself and his boys.

But try as he might, he couldn't feel much sorrow or pity for his father. The harsh reality of the life he and Sam were facing now, the way this whole sorry mess had fallen onto his shoulders, had built up a kind of wall within him. Sometimes it was the only thing holding him up. So Dad had to put up with alarm bells and being told where to go and what to eat? Boo hoo. Hell, at this point Dean would have_ loved_ to have somebody else putting food on his table and telling him what to do all day.

He wondered if his father spent any time at all worrying about just how his fuck-up of a sixteen-year-old was managing to supplement the measly $223 that he left them.

Fuck dad for making it so easy for them to fall off the edge.

And fuck him twice for leaving Dean with such a crushing sense of responsibility and pride that he'd do whatever it took to hold things together. Goddamn him for being so paranoid that his son would be incapable of asking for help from strangers. It was his fault—_Wasn't it?—_that Dean could never complain about what life had put on his plate or show how scared he was.

Fuck him so entangling Dean so securely in some unwritten Hunter's Code that he'd stand and fight even when every instinct was telling him to run away.

He was almost trembling with impotent fury, so caught up in his own twisted thoughts that he didn't notice Sam sending him worried glances out of the corner of his eye.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam cleared his throat in an unsubtle attempt to gain his attention. "You okay?"

"What? Yeah… just thinking," he said quickly, covering his slip with a harsh laugh. "Hard to imagine Dad in an orange jumpsuit."

"I was kinda hoping we could see him, you know, from a window or something." Sam sighed. "I didn't really think it would be like _this_."

"Like what?"

"Like a real prison. With guards and barbed wire and everything."

His heart suddenly ached for his brother. Sam was so intellectually precocious it was easy to forget sometimes he was just a kid who missed his dad. And fuck John a third time for putting this scar on his brother's psyche.

"It's a minimum security facility. They've probably got TVs and a gym and classes, stuff like that. It's not that bad."

"Right," Sam said sarcastically, "cause those are all things Dad would _love_."

"Dad knows we're safe," he tried. "He's tough. He'll only be there for a few more months if he gets paroled early. We just have to keep it together for a little while longer."

Sam was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "Listen… I've been thinking about something, Dean. I don't want you to go on any more trips by yourself. I was really worried about you when you didn't come back on time."

"We needed the money," he answered, quietly and without looking at his brother. "I was fine."

"Well, I didn't know that, did I? I'll come with you next time."

"You can't." There was no way he'd be able to hide what he was doing from his brother if he came along.

"I'll sleep in the car."

_c'mon, boy, hop in the car_

There was a long, awkward pause before he was able to respond. "Not an option, Sammy."

"I could help you—"

"_No_!" Wracked by shame and guilt, he spoke more harshly than he'd intended, and his brother gave him a hurt look.

He softened his tone with an effort. "It's just… we're gonna take care of this waheela thing, and then you won't need to worry about staying alone in the shack."

"We'll run out of money again."

"So I'll take care of it. _Alone_. Now just drop it."

"I don't care," Sam said stubbornly. "You got sick last time. I'm not letting you go by yourself." After a moment he added, "You're all I've got."

In the face of his brother's bitter honesty, Dean's anger evaporated.

"We'll talk about it later," he said, picking up the keys and starting the car. "Let's go get McDonald's."

* * *

Back at the shack, they drew the salt lines, loaded the silver bullets, and spent the night taking turns keeping watch.

Nothing happened that night.

Or the next night. Or the one after that.

By the fourth day, they were exhausted and irritable from the anxiety and lack of sleep.

"I'm gonna write Dad," Sam announced, grabbing a notebook and a pen.

"Knock yourself out."

Sam settled himself at the table while Dean looked over his shoulder with barely-concealed impatience.

_Dear Dad, How are you? We're fine, really. We went up to Racine yesterday to see if we could_

"Don't write _that_," Dean sputtered, grabbing a corner of the page and ripping it out of the spiral notebook before Sam could react. "Dad'll kill us if he thinks we've been sitting outside watching him."

Sam wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Why? We were only in the parking lot."

"Just trust me on this. He won't want to think we saw him while he was in prison."

Of course not. Dad wanted to be a superhero in his sons' eyes: laying down the law, setting impossible standards, and running off to kill monsters whenever the urge strikes him. Not passing time on a work detail while an armed guard kept watch over him.

"Okay, okay…" Sam shrugged an apology. "I just thought he'd want to know we're around. That we haven't forgotten him."

"I'm sure he doesn't think that."

A pained expression crossed his brother's face, but it was gone before Dean could really figure it out.

_Dear Dad, How are you? We're fine. Dean went up to Milwaukee and worked on construction, so we're all set for money, and_

Dean crumpled that one up too.

"It's _my_ letter," Sam complained. "Stop interfering."

"Stop writing about things Dad doesn't need to know," he countered. "Just talk about yourself."

Sam sighed in annoyance and turned slightly, so Dean had to strain his neck a little in order to read over his shoulder.

_Dear Dad, I hope you're okay. Dean and I are fine. I've been doing a lot of reading, and Dean's doing pretty well with the cooking. We went up to Madison the other day, and it was pretty cool. They have this huge library and I read a lot about Indian tribes in the US and Canada, which was interesting. Dean managed to pass for a college student, can you believe that? Me neither._

_Anyway, we're keeping busy. We've got a pretty good place to stay, no running water but we've gotten used to that. There's some kind of animal around here that's been bothering us a little at night, but we've figured out what the problem is, and Dean's got an idea of how to take care of it. So don't feel bad, we're dealing with it. Keep your spirits up. _

_Sam_

Dean wasn't happy with that letter either, but they sent it in the mail that afternoon because Sam insisted.

* * *

A few more nights passed quietly. They were both too edgy to get much sleep at night anymore. They dropped off at dawn and slept till noon or later.

This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when he'd made that offer to his father months ago. _I could help with stakeouts_, he'd said, then resented the way his father had hesitated. If this was hunting—waiting in the dark for the monster to appear, hoping he'd chosen the right ammo for the job, knowing he'd only get one chance and if he blew it he'd most likely die a gruesome death—he couldn't blame his father for wanting to keep him away from it a little longer.

"Maybe it went back up north," Sam suggested. "Back to the Valley of Headless Men. It must be used to the cold."

"Guess we should pray for a heat wave, then."

* * *

It came back a week later, just when he'd almost begun to think it was gone for good. They heard a howl in the distance, and then the unmistakable crunch of branches that signaled its approach.

"Dean…" Sam whispered. He couldn't see his brother's face in the dark, but he could hear the tension in his voice, and he patted Sam's arm reassuringly.

The rifle's familiar weight in his hands was the only comfort he could give himself.

For over ten minutes, the waheela—Dean couldn't think of it as anything else anymore—seemed to be circling their little shack, checking it over. It moved closer, then backed away, over and over.

Straining to hear, stiff with tension, he felt a wave of longing, of _missing dad _washover him, swelling up in his throat so fast he almost couldn't breathe. He wanted his father to protect him, to show up larger than life, gruff and disapproving, and make him feel safe. But they were on their own, and everything was depending on him now.

It occurred to him that if he was wrong about the silver bullets, the waheela would probably kill him, and Sam too. John would never know what happened to them.

He swallowed hard and shoved that feeling back down, reaching again for the anger and the boiling resentment that had been buoying him up for the last few weeks. The anger strengthened him, making it easier to focus on the here and now.

_Come on closer, you evil son of a bitch. You think you can shove and scratch your way in, or run us off? I'm gonna blast you back to wherever the hell you came from._

The creature neared the shack again, sniffed loudly, then moved away, coming back after a minute to rake its claws over the low boards near the ground. Dean held the rifle clenched tightly in his hands, trying to stop them from trembling.

Sam was holding Dad's .45, but they only had three silver bullets for it. As far as Dean was concerned, that was more than enough, because _his_ rifle was loaded and that was all that mattered. He didn't intend for Sam to exit the salt lines, much less shoot at the creature, no matter what.

Of course, he hadn't told Sam that, because his brother would have had a fit. Sam thought they were equals in this thing, taking the same risks, just like they both worked on the research. You and me against the world, yada yada. But there was a big difference between reading Indian legends in the quiet study area of a college library and shooting at monsters.

He knew Dad would agree with him on this point, at least.

Without warning, there was a tremendous _thud_ against the side wall that shook the wood and made the torn pieces of poly tarp flap against each other. It came again, and Sam threw a frightened glance his way and scooted farther away from the wall, into the middle of the room.

The waheela seemed to have decided on a simple, disturbing assault strategy: if it couldn't scratch and claw its way in, it would just break the walls down. He could feel the shack shudder every time the creature threw itself at the wall, growling and hissing in fierce expulsions of air.

They heard it circling again, scratching at the door, rattling it on its hinges. The waheela stopped to bark and howl, emitting a chilling high-pitched note that made him shiver.

Sam crawled up next to him quietly. "I think it's howling like that because it's closing in on us," he whispered, his lips close against Dean's ear. "I read about it."

No shit.

A heavy thump on the back wall made Sam flinch. Dean used it as his signal to move.

He stood up, trying not to make a sound. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his brother press his lips together worriedly, but Sam didn't move. They'd discussed this. It was a simple strategy, which is why it was going to work: when the waheela moved around to the back of the shack, Dean would step out the front door, circle around, and shoot it.

He stepped quietly over the salt lines and pushed the door open. He knew it was going to creak a little as it opened; no matter much he'd oiled the hinges, the wood was warped and ill-fitting, and it scraped a bit against the ground. He could only hope the waheela was too intent on its attack to hear it.

But as he stepped outside, the creature's frantic scratching stopped suddenly, and he _knew_: either it had heard something or it had picked up his scent. He raised the rifle and cocked the trigger.

Things happened very quickly after that.

At first he could hear it padding towards him, moving slowly around the shack, so he fixed his gaze on the corner of the shack and waited for it to show itself. He was ready.

But then it veered off, still out of his sight. He could hear it moving back, into the thicker part of the woods, and relief flooded him as he realized it was moving away. Maybe it wasn't looking for confrontation. After all, it hadn't actually attacked any people yet, just mauled a few animals. Maybe it had a primitive sense of self-preservation, or it just knew to stay away from humans.

He waited another full minute, but the only sounds he could hear were far off and getting even more distant. He was about to head back inside the shack when it changed course and charged.

Fuck, he'd underestimated it.

It came at him like a dark blur, moving faster than he could track. It crashed through the underbrush, and for a terrifying second or two he couldn't even get a fix on its direction. The darkness was disorienting, and it was hard to judge distances. But then he saw it clearly: enormous and hairy like a wolf on steroids, bounding toward him, its luminous yellow eyes glinting and its jaw opened to reveal a set of sharp white teeth.

He fired twice, right at its chest.

He knew he'd hit it—it released a shrill whine of pain—but that knowledge was lost somewhere as it threw itself at him, knocking him to the ground and whacking his head back against the wall of the shack.

Before he could scramble up, it was right on top of him. Its claws dug into his right shoulder and his left side, raking fire across his skin, and it reared its head back to give an ominous throaty howl, revealing rows of sharp teeth. He tried to curl up and protect himself, but the damn thing was holding him down, and its claws slashed at him with vicious intent. Then he was being dragged, tugged by his legs and pulled backward into the woods. His back scraped painfully along the rocks and branches on the uneven ground, and oh God, he couldn't stop it.

He cried out, terrified, pushing at the waheela in a futile attempt to loosen its grip. He could hear his jeans ripping, felt the searing burn as the creature's claws sank into his right hip, tearing his flesh. Pain assaulted him, sharp and caustic, leaving him momentarily panicked. He was yelling helplessly now, and the waheela reared back, nostrils flared, its jaws opening to prepare to snap down on his neck.

He made another frantic attempt to push it away, but he couldn't fight against the crushing weight. With a last, desperate surge of energy, he shoved the butt of the rifle up just as the waheela bit down, and its jaws closed on the metal instead of his jugular.

Infuriated, the waheela shook its massive head from side to side, trying to loosen the rifle from between its teeth. Still trapped beneath, arms pinned, he could only wait for the end. It glared down at him, as if it was sizing him up before it made a final, fatal lunge. He couldn't help it: he cringed back, slamming his eyes shut, able to think only _Sammy_, _I'm so sorry._

Then a shot rang out, and he felt a spattering of warm liquid spray onto his face and the side of his neck. The creature lurched off him, whimpering and shuddering, coming to rest just a few feet away.

Another shot.

He blinked up to see his brother standing over him, looking determined and furious. Sam held his arm up, firm and unwavering, and took a third shot at the waheela, straight at the head this time. The creature didn't even react. The rifle was still jammed between its teeth, the metal crushed by the force of its bite.

It was dead.

Holy shit, they'd done it.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **I've gotten several comments adders readers who seem a little put off, to say the least, by the fact that Bobby and the boys don't seem to be acquainted, and have pointed out to me that this is, in fact, established canon. I hope that this chapter and the next make it clear where I'm going with this, and maybe I'm bending the facts a bit... Anyway, guys, it's just a story. See how it plays out, okay? Give it a chance. Feedback and comments are welcome.

* * *

**Part Five**

"Dean!" Sam crouched down next to him. "Oh my God, are you all right? You shot it but I heard it dragging you away, and you were screaming, I didn't know what to do…"

"You did good," he breathed, trying to sit up, but his limbs felt strangely leaden, so he lay back again while Sam's eyes widened in concern. "You killed it, Sammy. You got it right in the head."

The momentary exhilaration he'd felt when he realized the creature was dead was fading, replaced by a growing unease at what he was going to find when he looked down at himself. He knew this weird disconnection from his body was a bad sign.

"Are you hurt?" Sam's voice seemed to be coming from far away. "I can't see anything in the dark. We have to get you inside."

"Right," he managed. _In a minute. _There was a dull throbbing along his side, and on his shoulder and hip. It didn't really hurt all that much anymore, which was good. But he was weak and light-headed, and very, very tired. He closed his eyes, dimly aware of his brother speaking to him, but he couldn't focus on what he was saying.

He was roused back to full consciousness by Sam shouting "Dean! Wake up!" in his ear, making him flinch. Sam grabbed his shoulders and shook him a little, wrenching a cry from his lips, because _holyfuck_ his shoulder was suddenly on fire.

"Dean, you're bleeding…" Sam was looking at his fingertips, which were shiny and wet. "This is bad. We have to move. Can you stand up?"

"Uh… maybe."

He managed to stand up, but his legs just collapsed beneath him, and he wound up leaning heavily on his brother, barely able to make his legs hold his weight. Sam struggled to hold him up, murmuring encouragement as he tried to propel him forward. "Just a little farther… Come on, don't stop, almost there…"

They finally made it inside, and Sam helped him lie down on the airbed. He curled up onto his side, shaking with exhaustion, while Sam rushed to light their kerosene lanterns. His shoulder and hip were throbbing now, hot pulses of pain that made him grit his teeth.

"You need to lie back," Sam told him, voice quavering. "Roll onto your back, okay? Can you do that?"

Sure, he could do that. He just didn't want to.

But he knew his brother was right, so he slowly turned onto his back and straightened his limbs. But it wasn't until Sam brought over the lamp and let out a horrified gasp that he realized how much trouble he was in.

He looked down at himself, and what he saw seemed to wake up all his nerve endings at once. His shirt was ripped in parallel claw marks all along the left side, and his jeans were shredded, the fabric barely holding together, soaked in blood from right hip to knee, and further down along his shins. Underneath he could see the bloody, gaping tears in his skin, and that was when the pain reared up and seized him. His skin felt like it was burning everywhere: his shoulder, his side, his hip, his thigh, even his back, and he let out a ragged moan.

On TV, he thought stupidly, this was when the ambulance siren would start ringing in the distance. The show would cut to commercial and the next scene would be in a hospital bed with the worried family gathered around, the torn flesh covered in clean white bandages. The entire intervening scene, the part where the victim was bleeding and writhing in pain, waiting for medical help to arrive and for the cool blessing of painkillers and unconsciousness… They never showed that.

Screw TV. This was when his dad should have been leaning over him, calm and controlled and reassuring, running his fingers through Dean's sweaty hair and saying _I know it hurts, but I've got to see how bad it is _and_ It's all right, son, I'm going to take care of everything_.

God, how he wanted that.

Dad would know what to do. He'd make Dean feel safe, saying _just lie back and rest, kiddo_, and then he could close his eyes and let his terror and pain fade away.

But what he had instead was his little brother, looking to him for answers and wanting to be reassured himself.

"Dean… we need to get you to a hospital." Sam's voice was shaking a little, and he looked pale. "There's a lot of blood. That thing clawed you up pretty bad…"

He grunted in disagreement. "Get the first aid kit."

John's first aid kit was a beat-up metal toolbox with three drawers, stocked with everything imaginable, from gauze bandages and tweezers to suture kits and superglue. But it was heavy and bulky, and it was still in the car because Dean had been too lazy to drag it over to the shack with them. His father had always insisted they bring it inside every night, wherever they were staying. It was part of the evening routine, right up there with brushing their teeth and salting the doors and windows.

_Just in case_, he'd always say. _We keep the first aid kit within reach._

He conceded that his dad might have had a valid point about this.

"You need stitches," Sam insisted. His hands hovered hesitantly over Dean's body, not quite daring to touch. "Lots of them, and I don't know how to do that." Dean just shook his head, opening his mouth to explain, but his brother cut him off. "It's true, Dean! We can't take care of this ourselves, and if Dad were here he would say the same—"

"No!" he bit out. A hospital would mean uncomfortable questions and social workers. It would be a one-way ticket to Child Protective Services, and he couldn't let that happen.

"Listen. They need parental consent… to treat a minor." His breath was coming in short, shallow bursts, and it took so much energy to get the words out, but he had to make his brother understand. "We can't just show up like this… saying an animal attacked me. They'll want to know what we were doing in the woods… by ourselves… and where's our dad…"

He let himself imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like for his father to be notified that his boys had been found, that his oldest son was lying torn up and bleeding in some hospital bed. Dad would be fit to be tied. Worried and upset. Furious at Dean for endangering himself and Sam, for screwing it all up so badly.

But not surprised.

"It doesn't matter," Sam continued, oblivious. "We'll go to the emergency room and give false names or something. We'll say our parents are out of town and we were camping in the woods. They can stitch you up and then we'll leave, okay?"

It was hard for him to think clearly, but at a deep gut-level, he knew it wouldn't work. Even if they agreed to treat him without a parent, he was hurt too badly for the two of them to dash in and out. There was no way they'd be able to stop CPS from latching onto them and _fuckfuckfuck_, everything he'd done would all have been for nothing.

"_No_!" he growled, reaching out to grab his brother's arm and gripping it tightly, wincing as the movement pulled at his torn skin. He put some of John's _that's-an-order-damn-it _into his tone, scowling up at Sam. "We're not going to a hospital." He paused for another breath. "I'll be all right. You'll patch me up."

Apparently he wasn't channeling his father as well as he'd hoped, because Sam gave him an incredulous look, not without sympathy. "Patch you up? That's crazy, I can't fix something like this! It's too big. Some of these cuts look really deep."

As if Sam's words were a cue, the pain seared through him again in another devastating wave, making him bite his lip and clench his fists to keep from crying out, but he couldn't help the high keening sound that escaped his throat.

His brother startled back, looking like he was on the verge of tears. "Dean, listen… we have to get some help. I'll hike down to the road, flag down a car or something." Sam stood up, throwing a nervous glance at the door, then back down at his brother. "It'll only take a few minutes and I'll be back, I swear. Or… I think I could drive the car, I've watched you plenty of times and I'm sure I could do it, and you can just—"

"Sammy," he said, holding up his hand to stop his brother's increasingly panicked flow of words. The pain lessened enough for him to relax his jaw, and he tried again, this time keeping his voice as soft and steady as he could. "_No_. Listen to me, okay? I need you to help me, so you gotta hold yourself together. You don't need to go anywhere. It's not as bad as all that… Just calm down."

He waited, and Sam finally nodded. His eyes were wet and he dragged the back of his hand across them, then took a deep breath. "Good," Dean said approvingly. "That's better."

He took a shaky breath of his own, trying to sharpen his thoughts and project a sense of control. He knew what to do. His father had been drilling him in first aid procedures for years, and he'd helped patch him up plenty of times after hunts. He knew how to wrap a sprain, clean and bandage cuts, even reduce a dislocated shoulder with John talking him through it. He'd watched his father stitch cuts and had even done it once himself, when John had come home with a five-inch laceration along the back of his shoulder.

But he'd never had to do any of it without his father right there alongside him, taking him through it step by step.

There were so many things about his dad that he'd taken for granted. He could recall a dozen times when John would come through the door after a hunt, a slightly-embarrassed grin on his face, saying calmly, "Need a little help here, son." Late at night, Sam asleep, Dean would run for the first aid kit and listen to his father's quiet directions: _start wrapping from this end and move upward, place the tape on this side and pull it across like this, hold that pressure and don't let up._

What he couldn't fathom, now that it was happening to him, was how his father had managed to maintain his composure and instruct his son on the finer points of suturing while his gut was rolling with nausea and his skin was burning. Dad had never let on that he was scared and hurting—although, he realized now, he must have been—while his son bumbled his way through a novice patch-up job. He'd just grunted out patient instructions and _pass me the whiskey bottle, Dean_.

Whiskey would probably be a good idea right now.

"We have to do something quick," Sam prompted, eyes still wide and terrified. "You're bleeding really badly."

"So we have to stop the bleeding. Okay? You've seen me do this for Dad. Put pressure on the cuts until the bleeding stops." He paused, taking a moment to think. "Then you're going to go get the first aid kit from the car, and then… and then we'll…" The rest of his thought wandered off.

"Then we'll what?"

"We'll go home, Sammy," he mumbled. "We'll go to sleep. It's late."

"Dean," Sam said sharply. "What're you talking about?"

He was so tired. He didn't know why it was bothering Sam, and the understanding danced just beyond his reach. "Jus' lemme think… Be quiet for a minute…"

He was starting to get dizzy. His head was spinning, making him want to throw up. He could hear his father hissing at him in irritation, _Pull yourself together, son_, _this is no time for slacking off_.

He wanted to obey. He did. But he couldn't seem to get his thoughts to cooperate. He was vaguely aware of Sam moving around the shack, saying something, but he couldn't quite process the words.

Things got a little patchy after that, like he was losing bits of time, zoning in and out. His feet were lifted and placed on something that raised them off the bed. His clothes were being jostled and tugged, and there was a ripping sound.

Sam's face swam in and out of focus. He had the Bowie in his hand.

He looked angry, Dean thought. Hard and determined.

"'m sorry," he mumbled. He wasn't sure what he was apologizing for.

* * *

When he came back to himself, there was a chill of cold air on his skin. He was a little surprised to find himself mostly naked. While he was drifting in and out, apparently, Sam had hacked off his shirt and jeans, leaving him just in his boxers, which were pulled down to expose the cuts on his right hip. His feet were elevated, propped up on their bulging laundry bag. His brother was kneeling next to him, an old t-shirt balled in his hand.

"Why'd you have to cut off my jeans?" he muttered, annoyed. "Could've just pulled 'em off."

Sam shrugged. "They were all torn up anyway. And I didn't want to hurt you when I took them off."

"Loved those jeans." He only had one other pair, and they were getting too short for him.

"How're you doing?"

"M'okay," he replied automatically, not feeling up to elaborating. The sensations were too hard to describe, anyway. There was a weird numbness in his limbs, which was probably a blessing. He was trembling with cold, but hot and sweaty at the same time. His mouth was dry and he really wanted a drink of water.

"I think you're in shock, Dean." Sam was looking him over with a tense, worried glance. "You weren't making sense before. You got all sweaty and you were breathing funny. Those are the symptoms."

"Not in shock," he objected weakly. He knew the list of symptoms as well as his brother, knew it was a fairly inevitable condition following traumatic injury—_Is that what he had?—_but even so, he was embarrassed. Shock was something for the faint of heart, for wusses. John Winchester had never come home from a hunt in a state of shock, as far as he knew.

Just as well his dad couldn't see him now.

Something soft pressed tightly against his side, right on top of the deepest cuts. He jerked and made a cry of protest, but Sam's other hand pressed down on his chest, holding him in place. The pain accelerated from a dull burning to a roar, and he couldn't help bucking away, pushing at Sam's hand. "Jesus, Sammy! Ease up a little!"

"No," Sam said firmly. "Dad always tells you to clamp down as tight as you can."

That was true, but he'd never actually experienced it himself, and John had never hinted that it felt like a wire brush scrubbing over raw skin. "Goddamn it, that really hurts! Just let up for a second…"

Sam shook his head. "I can feel the blood soaking through to my fingers. Just hold on. I'm sorry. You know I have to do it. Take deep breaths, that's what Dad always says." As if to emphasize his point, Sam pressed the heel of his hand down harder, wincing when Dean jolted.

He let out a groan, or maybe it was more of a sob. Fuck Dad and his stupid first aid training, and fuck Sammy too. Sam's hands were like a vice on his side, and no amount of squirming managed to weaken his brother's grip. When had his brother gotten so damn strong?

But Sam kept telling him to breathe deep, in and out, in and out, and the pain eventually died down to a more manageable level.

"Son of a bitch," Dean hissed, when he could talk. "Gonna kick your fuckin' ass. Enough already."

Sam's lips tightened into a stubborn line. "Not yet. It's only been a few minutes. You hold it now, I'm gonna do those ones on your leg." He guided Dean's left hand to his side, curling his fingers into place on top of the bloody t-shirt. "C'mon, you have to press down hard."

They stayed still for another ten minutes or so, his throbbing right hip and thigh flaring into red-hot agony under his brother's hands. He squeezed his fingers hard against his wounded side, ignoring every instinct that told him not to, then gasped and squirmed against the burn.

"Breathe through it," Sam told him, and Dean wanted to slap him, because breathing was just about the only thing he could manage now and it wasn't lessening the pain any.

Sam ignored his glare, keeping up a steady stream of banal encouragement. "You're doing fine," he said, as Dean grunted and hissed. "Just a few minutes more and then we'll check it. Keep up the pressure, it'll stop the bleeding and then you'll feel better. Just breathe, in and out… in and out."

Dean began swearing, a steady mantra of _shitshitshit_, but Sam's voice was soft and soothing, and he found himself hanging onto it. The words weren't important; he just needed to hear that calm cadence. His brother was still chanting "in… and out," slowly and rhythmically, and he tried to slow his breathing to match it. He didn't know if it was helping or not, but this was what Sam was offering so he was willing to try.

He'd never seen this side of his brother, hadn't even known it existed. He couldn't remember the last time _he_ was really sick or hurt and needed comforting. His father was never particularly sympathetic when he had a fever, so he soldiered through flu season each winter, dragging himself to class and popping Tylenol.

With Sam it was different, of course, because Dean had always taken care of him. For the last few years, he'd actually looked forward to the times when Sam was hit with a fever, because that was when he let down his prickly _I-can-take-care-of-myself_ façade and allowed himself to be coddled. Dean would bring him tea and sit with him on the couch watching old cartoons, and when Sam was really feverish, Dean would wet a washcloth and rub it over his arms, his forehead, and the back of his neck. He'd never admit it to his brother, but he lived for those moments when Sam would sigh and relax into his touch, saying _Do that again, Dean_ and _Sit here with me a little more._

It was the same reason he didn't mind taking care of John when he'd been injured on a hunt. His family _needed_ him when they were vulnerable in a way that they never did when they were healthy and whole.

But now the tables were turned and Dean was the needy one. Why should it surprise him that Sam could recognize when he was on the brink and needed to be soothed, that he could offer trite words of comfort and a soft voice when his brother was in pain?

Maybe because as far as he could remember, Sam had never done it. He'd always been too wrapped up in his own concerns, too self-centered (and Dean had encouraged that, because he'd wanted Sam to be kept in the normal world as long as possible), or maybe just too young. Maybe now, for the first time, Sam had been forced to step out of the nice comfort zone Dean had padded for him all his life.

But deep down, where Dean was proud and stubborn, the whole situation just felt _wrong_. Because Sam shouldn't have to comfort him or protect him when he was vulnerable. He should be looking out for Sam; that was the way it was supposed to be.

"Breathe steady," Sam told him, slow and calm. "I'm sorry if it hurts. Just a minute or two more, okay? Breathe in… breathe out."

He let himself drift.

* * *

Irrigating the wounds brought him out of that dreamy state, fast.

Sam started with some of the smaller scratches on his shoulder, and Dean managed to keep the noise down to grunts and the occasional bit-off whine until his brother started in on the first deep gash. Using two fingers, Sam spread the edges of the wound apart and used the bulb syringe to squirt water inside it, drawing a full-throated howl from him.

The nausea that had been hovering since the attack finally overwhelmed him, and he retched helplessly, barely managing to turn his onto his side before he vomited his dinner onto the floor. Then the smell assaulted him, making him heave again.

Sam covered the whole disgusting mess with a towel, murmuring "It's okay, it's okay."

"You're a fucking sadist," he gasped, voice tight with pain. "Do you really have to dig your fingers in there like that, bitch?"

"You _told_ me to do it like this. Do you want to wash it out, or just leave all those disgusting claw germs in there to multiply?" Sam dipped the syringe back into the five-gallon water bottle, squeezing the bulb to fill it again. "Do you think I like squishing my fingers around in your blood and guts?"

Dean could hardly spare the energy for a glare. He knew animal bites and claw scratches were dirty, contaminated with bacteria, making infection a near certainty unless they could get them really clean. The bulb syringe was a staple in the Winchester first aid kit, and he'd used it plenty of times on John's assorted cuts and scratches. But he'd never had it used on himself. He could barely tolerate his brother touching the cuts, much less pushing the edges apart and forcing a steady stream of water into them. He knew Sam was trying to be gentle, but there was no way he could avoid hurting him.

So he shuddered and cursed and groaned as his brother made his way up and down his body, cleaning each individual scratch, bite, and gash until all their water was gone.

Then they were done. Thank God. He lay back, closing his eyes. The bed was soaked with the runoff water and he was shivering with cold.

"Uh, Dean…" There was a halting tone in Sam's voice, like he had bad news. "Some of these cuts have opened up. They're bleeding again."

Crap.

When Sam pressed down on the cuts again, a low, miserable moan escaped him, and there was helpless sympathy in his brother's eyes.

* * *

By the time it really _was_ over, he was exhausted. Sam taped gauze lightly over the wounds to cover them. They couldn't stitch them—thank God for small favors—because there was too much risk of infection.

They were going to need more water in the morning, to clean the wounds again and for drinking. Maybe by morning, the idea of walking out to the Impala and driving down the road a mile to the nearest gas station wouldn't seem like such an impossibility.

Sam moved him to the other airbed and covered him with a blanket. Finding a comfortable position would have taken more acrobatic skill than he possessed, even on a good day, so he just hunched over onto his left side, closing his eyes and waiting for the sting to settle down.

He listened to Sam moving around the shack. He pushed the ruined clothes, the mess under the towel, and the bloody, wet sleeping bag into a corner, then redrew the salt lines. He could only hope it was an unnecessary precaution, but Sam was right not to take chances.

Finally, carefully, his brother lay down next to him. "How do you feel?" he whispered.

"I'll be all right." The truth was, he ached everywhere and his head was spinning. "You were great, Sammy," he added, after a minute. "Thank you. I mean it."

Sam didn't answer, but a few minutes later, his breath became ragged and hitched. When he made a wet sniff, Dean knew he was crying. He wanted to turn over and put his arms around his brother, but he just didn't have the energy to move, and besides, the notion of turning onto the raw skin of his back made him cringe.

Sam's breath evened out into sleep soon enough, but Dean lay awake, strung out from adrenaline and overexertion, too tense and uncomfortable to let himself relax.

His first hunt, and he'd completely screwed it up.

No matter how he looked at it, he'd failed. He hadn't kept his brother safe; Sam had needed to come rescue _him_. He'd watched his older brother be mauled and nearly killed, and then dealt with the mess until his hands were covered with Dean's blood and his ears ringing with his brother's cries of pain. He was only twelve, for the love of God. How could he ever return to any kind of normal life, after all this?

No wonder he cried himself to sleep.

As for Dean… _normal_ seemed like less and less of an option. He thought he'd come to terms with being homeless and having a father in prison, and having to earn money in ways he'd never wanted to consider. He could have handled all of that, even though the gap between him and other people was already widening.

But after tonight… He knew enough about first aid and wound repair to understand that now he was going to be left with a set of vicious, ugly scars that would mark him for the rest of his life.

A freak.

It was only fair he'd be left with a reminder of his failure tattooed onto his skin.

_Watch out for Sammy. _

_I can't have you making any mistakes when you're working with me._

_So you think you're ready to learn the ropes, do something a little more complicated than draw a salt line?_

Obviously, he wasn't ready. _Hadn't been_ ready. He should have grabbed his brother and run, taken him somewhere safe, bought a goddamn pup tent at Wal-Mart and gone camping somewhere else for the next two months. But no, he'd been too fucking arrogant. He decided he could handle a creature that had eluded even his father, and now his brother was going pay the price, in tears and nightmares and probably a good case of post-traumatic stress disorder.

It was Dean's fault, and he was going to have to live with that.

* * *

He woke to the sound of voices.

There was a light rain pattering down on the roof, and the mid-morning light was visible through the shack windows. He was alone in the shack. Sam was outside, talking to someone.

He felt a little feverish and dull-witted, as if he had the flu. He was still hunched on his left side, and he stretched carefully, feeling the pull of stiff muscles and taut, swollen skin under all the gauze. Pushing himself up gingerly, he managed to sit up, although it left him a little breathless.

It was only then that he jolted into focus. Shit, Sam was _talking to someone_ outside, which meant someone was here who shouldn't be, and his brother was

He was alone in the shack. Sam was outside, talking to someone.

He felt a little feverish and dull-witted, as if he had the flu. He was still hunched on his left side, and he stretched carefully, feeling the pull of stiff muscles and taut, swollen skin under all the gauze. Pushing himself up gingerly, he managed to sit up, although it left him a little breathless.

It was only then that he jolted into focus. Shit, Sam was _talking to someone_ outside, which meant someone was here who shouldn't be, and his brother was alone out there, trying to deal with it.

The voices outside were muffled through the closed door, and the rain was making it hard to hear. He couldn't make out anything clearly other than the fact that Sam was talking to a man with a deep, gruff voice.

A flash of fear surged through him and his mouth went dry. Whoever it was, they needed to get rid of him before he saw the dead waheela and started asking questions, or worse, opened the door to the shack and realized two kids had been living here on their own.

It was enough to get him moving off the bed, wincing at the pull of the bandages on his hip and his side. He sidestepped the pile of soiled clothes and towels, stopping to pick up his Bowie from the table. Then he stood next to the door and listened.

"…anything about that dead animal over there, would you?"

_Crap._

"What dead animal?" Even with the rain muffling the sounds, he could hear that Sam's voice was high-pitched and stressed.

"The big one over there with the bullet in its brain," the man said.

There was a pause. "Wow," Sam said, sounding impressed and a little shocked. "I didn't see that when I got here. Must've happened last night."

"Maybe you'd better go back home, then. Might be others like it around here."

"I can't," Sam said a little too hastily, and then hesitated. "This is our, uh, secret fort. My friends and I fixed it up, and we've been hanging out here since school's out." It wasn't a bad spur-of-the-moment story, but the tremor in Sam's voice was giving it away.

"You alone here?"

"The other kids are on their way. Look, this is _our_ place, so you need to go."

"I'm just looking around. No harm in that. What do you do here in your fort?"

"None of your business."

"Looks like that animal over there scratched your fort up pretty good. Mind if I take a look inside?"

"Don't come any closer," Sam said quickly, raising his voice. "I'm warning you. I'm not afraid to shoot."

Dean had time to think _Oh shit_, andthere was a loud thump against the wall of the shack and a yelp from Sam. Something clattered to the ground.

"Don't ever aim a gun at somebody unless you intend to use it, kid, even if it isn't loaded."

"Lemme go!" Sam cried, and that was all Dean needed to hear.

He pushed open the door and strode forward, holding his knife in a hammer grip in front of him. Sam was crouched on the muddy ground, rubbing his wrist and glaring at a burly man in a baseball cap who was standing over him, holding their .45.

"Get the fuck away from him!" Dean growled. "Put the gun down and back away _slowly_, asshole."

The man eyed the knife in Dean's hand, but didn't seem particularly worried and didn't move away. He glanced down at Sam. "Thought you said you were alone, hotshot. Who's the mummy?"

Something struck him as_ off_, and it set his teeth on edge. The guy should have been showing some respect for the knife, if nothing else, even if Dean didn't make a particularly impressive opponent in his underwear and bare feet. "I said _back away_," he repeated.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, keeping his back to the wall. He looked more embarrassed than hurt. "You okay?" Dean asked quietly, and Sam nodded.

"Relax, he's fine." The man didn't sound apologetic in the least. "And for your information, the Sundance kid here came at _me_ with the gun. Which isn't even loaded, by the way."

Dean took a second to throw an enquiring glance down at his brother. Jesus, Sam got points for the gutsy bluff, but he needed a serious refresher course on gun safety. He was lucky this guy had just disarmed him rather than surprising him with a weapon of his own.

Sam gave him a _what-was-I-supposed-to-do _shrug.

He turned his attention back to the intruder. "Well, tough shit. You attacked my brother and now you're gonna get the hell away from here before I carve my initials into your fucking face."

Baseball Cap just gave him a long, appraising look that ended in a raised eyebrow. If anything, he seemed grimly amused.

Fucker.

"Sam, get inside," he ordered, flicking his gaze to his brother, who was watching the interaction with a wary expression. "_Now!_" he barked, and Sam disappeared behind the door.

"Sam?" the man asked, cocking his head to the side. "Your brother's name is Sam?"

He narrowed his eyes at the man. "What the fuck do you care? I said, back away."

"So that makes you Dean, right?" the man pressed. "John Winchester's son."

At the sound of his father's name, he froze.

It was a trap. He didn't know this man, and if he was some kind of undercover police officer or social worker, the game was up. But after a minute, he nodded, wordlessly. He couldn't bluff his way out of this, and even if he could, he'd never deny who his father was.

Sam peeked out from behind the door, coming to stand quietly beside him.

The man took off his baseball cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was a seemingly innocent move, but it was clear he was using the time to take a good look at their shack. He turned slightly to peer at the unmoving lump of fur twenty yards back, and then swept his gaze over the two of them, sizing them up.

Another wave of doubt surged through him. The man wasn't acting like a long-lost friend, or even like a cop or a social worker. There was an air of caution about him, mixed with some of his dad's _don't-fuck-with-me_ attitude.

The man stuck the cap back on his head and gave them a wry smile. "Shoulda known you were John's boys when one of you met me at the door with a gun and the other pulled a knife on me."

"Who the hell are you?" Dean heard the tremor in his own voice. Damn it.

"Name's Bobby Singer. I'm an old friend of John's."

He remembered the name from his father's journal (_Bobby agreed to take the boys for a few weeks so I can head out to California with Bill_) but the man's face didn't ring a bell. Dean lifted the knife higher and looked him in the eye. "That's funny, because he never talks about you, and I've never seen you before."

"Sure you have," Singer told him, his lips twitching up in a small smile. "You and your daddy used to spend time up at my place when you were little. You had a mop of blond hair back then. That's why I didn't recognize you at first."

"I don't remember you," he said with a touch of belligerence, although it was true, he'd been a towhead when he was young. "And that still doesn't explain what you're doing here."

"How about we make a deal," Singer said pleasantly. "You put down that knife and tell me what's inside this cabin that the furry critter over there was so eager to get to, and I'll tell you what brings me here."

Dean took a step forward, pushing Sam firmly behind him at the same time. A wave of dizziness washed over him, making him sway slightly. He hoped Singer didn't notice. "I don't have to tell you a damn thing. And I'm warning you, I know how to use this knife."

Singer narrowed his eyes at him, frowning. "Look, son, you can either put the Bowie away, or you can lose it just like your brother lost the gun." It wasn't a threat, just a statement of fact.

Dean steadied his stance. He wasn't up for this, not at all, but he wasn't going to let this stranger waltz in and invade their home just because he said he was a friend. If his dad had taught him anything, it was that danger lurked around every corner. "Why don't you just—"

Singer stepped forward suddenly, slapping his left hand sharply against the back of Dean's hand and chopping his right hand against the inside of Dean's wrist, as if he was clapping with Dean's hand caught in the middle. There was a loud _thwack_ and the knife flew out of his grip onto the ground before he even realized what had happened.

He was pulled off balance by the sudden movement and, _whoa_, dizzy again. He managed to straighten up again after a second to glare at Singer, but the effect was probably ruined by the way he was holding onto the door for support.

All traces of genial friendliness left Singer's face, replaced by a steely hardness that hinted at danger. "Look, son, I don't take kindly to being threatened." Still keeping his eyes fixed on Dean, Singer reached down and picked up the Bowie. "I don't know how long you've been living out here, but seems to me like you've forgotten some of the rules of common courtesy. I've told you who I am. Now why don't we go inside and talk a bit. Besides," he said, his expression softening, "you look like you're about to take a nose dive."

Dean swallowed back his retort. He _did_ need to sit down—or lie down, or something—and besides, what could he say at this point?

"Dean? You all right?" Sam put a hand out to steady him, looking up worriedly.

He wasn't all right. He felt sick—and pissed off and embarrassed—but he nodded.

"Guess we're having guests, Sammy." He glanced tiredly at Singer. "C'mon in, then. 'Scuse the mess."

Singer gave him an unamused smile and followed them inside.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Six **

"What the hell…"

Singer stopped short as they entered the shack, his brow furrowing as he scanned the symbols on the back wall. He squinted and stepped closer, muttering to himself. Dean couldn't catch the words, but they didn't sound like English; Latin, maybe, or Greek.

He'd gotten so used to the weird graffiti on the wall that he barely noticed it anymore. If anything, he thought of it as some long-gone squatter's attempt to scare other people away. _Sigils and signs_, Dad had called them, which Dean translated as _incomprehensible scribbling_. But Singer was looking at them like he could read them, and from the look of disquiet on his face, the message wasn't anything friendly.

He should probably say something, ask about the symbols, but sitting down was a bigger priority at the moment. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he lowered himself carefully onto the chair by the table, wincing at the sharp stab of pain from his right hip.

He had to keep it together. He needed to keep up his guard with this overconfident gatecrasher, who wasn't ashamed to disarm two kids and push his way into their home. But he was weak and exhausted, as if all the energy and adrenaline that had kept him propped up outside had drained out through his toes the minute he walked in the door.

Now that the situation with Singer was resolved—sort of—he could feel the pain of his injuries reawakening. He couldn't recline because of the abrasions on his back, so he slumped over onto the table, putting his weight on his arms, which only made his shoulder burn. The cuts on his side were complaining viciously. Sitting on a hard chair wasn't really what he'd have preferred, but he wasn't going to lie down with this stranger in the room.

Still, he couldn't help releasing a hiss of pain.

It was enough to distract Singer from whatever had grabbed his attention on the wall. He swung his gaze around to take in the waterlogged sleeping bag and the mess of bloody clothes in the corner, the open first aid kit with its contents strewn all over the floor, and finally Dean himself.

"What exactly happened to you, kid? And get out of that chair, you should be lying down."

_Not a bad idea_, he thought muzzily, and it was Sam who answered. "That thing outside's called a waheela. It attacked us last night and we killed it."

"A _waheela_?" Singer asked, sounding incredulous. "It can't be a- Who in God's name told you that?"

"We figured it out on our own," Sam said, a little sullenly. "Nobody told us anything."

"A _waheela_ is the creature John's after?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I need to take a closer look at it, but if that's true, you two should've been running in the opposite direction, not dealing with it yourselves. You're lucky to be alive."

Sam's face fell. "Dean shot it, but it didn't stop and he got clawed up bad… It started to drag him off, and he was yelling and I didn't know what to do, it was gonna—"

"Is that why you're here?" Dean interrupted, sensing his brother's rising hysteria. "You were hunting it?"

It was the one explanation that made sense. Singer must be another hunter looking for the Beast of Bray Road, who just happened to know their father. He'd stumbled on their shack by coincidence, following the clues just like John had done months before.

"Not exactly. I'm a hunter all right, but-" Singer started to say, but another wash of vertigo made Dean grab for the table edge. Suddenly Singer was right next to him, tugging at his elbow, leaning over him with a look of concern. "C'mon, over to that bed. Let me have a look at you."

His first instinct was to recoil away. Just because the guy was a hunter didn't mean he knew anything about first aid, and it sure as hell didn't mean he should be touching Dean. The only touch he really wanted right now was his father's, but that wasn't going to happen.

At the same time, he wanted to give in to it. Singer was about his father's age, he had John's bluster and brusque confidence, and damn it, it had just been so long since someone had offered to take care of him. Even the way the man had disarmed him so easily reminded him of his father. All that was missing was Dad's look of disgust and his _For God's sake, Dean, get your head in the game, your technique's for shit_.

And the hell of it was, there was something familiar about him—the memory was just out of reach, but the name, _Bobby_, struck a comfortable chord deep down.

So he let Singer haul him to his feet, and didn't pull away when the man put a supportive hand around his bicep, guiding him toward the bed.

But a second later, Sam was suddenly at his side, edging Singer away. "_I'll_ help him," his brother insisted grimly, with the implied: _not you._

Singer didn't protest. "Just take care setting him down."

Dean stumbled over to the bed and let Sam help him as he folded himself down onto the mattress. He kept himself upright, but it was a struggle. The dizziness wouldn't leave him, and he could feel the nausea climbing up his gullet. He knew he had a fever, and that was bad. It meant infection, and if he was hurt and sick, he wouldn't be able to take care of Sam.

"Lie down," Singer instructed.

"In a minute," he said, as firmly as he could manage. "You can check me out, but give me the knife back first."

"And my gun," Sam added.

Singer looked as if he was going to burst out laughing. "You two planning a sneak attack? One of you can barely sit up straight, and the gun's empty, remember?"

_Asshole. _"I want 'em back before you do anything else. I don't trust you, Mr. Singer, and neither does my brother. And the weapons are ours, not yours."

Singer shook his head, then eyed them both frankly. "For God's sake, I get it that you're Winchesters and you don't like to trust anybody," he said, his voice tinged with cynicism, "but this isn't helping. If it'll make you feel better, though," he shrugged, "you can have them back." He set the Bowie carefully down on the table and the .45 alongside it. "How about you keep them there for now."

Sam took a step forward, reaching for the weapons, but Singer snaked a hand out and clamped it around his wrist.

"It's a deal-breaker," Singer told him calmly, ignoring Sam's attempts to pull away. "I don't work with a knife pointed at me."

There was a pause. Sam glanced down helplessly at him, his hand still trapped in Singer's grip.

Keeping the knife nearby was an empty gesture, and he knew it. He'd already proven he was no match for Singer, and that was when he was on his feet and more or less alert. Sam was in no position to protect him, either.

"They can stay on the table," he relented, not seeing another choice. But he gave his brother a look—_Stay on your toes_—and Sam nodded.

Singer released Sam's wrist, but waited for him to step back from the table before he turned his attention back to Dean.

He lay back on the bed, trying not to cringe away from Singer's fingers as he unwound the gauze and pressed along the edges of the worst cuts.

"These are getting infected." Singer said, probing the skin around the slashes on his thigh with none-too-gentle fingers while Dean tried to hold still. "Not surprising, considering where that thing's claws have probably been. Get me some water, kid," he told Sam, who was kneeling next to Dean's shoulder. "The gauze is stuck to the wound, and I don't want to pull at it."

Dean nodded in weak agreement. No pulling sounded good. He was trying to be stoic, not wanting to freak Sam out, but every time Singer as much as breathed near the wounds, he wanted to jerk away. And kick the man in the nuts while he was at it.

"Uh… we're all out of water," Sam admitted in a worried voice. "We used it all last night to clean out the cuts."

"Well, go get some more, then," Singer told him impatiently. "I need to wash my hands before I do anything, and your brother could use a drink."

It pissed him off, the way Singer was ordering Sam around. "We usually use the bathroom—_Ow,_ stop touching that!—at the gas station down the road to wash up."

"Or the one at the park," Sam added. "But we have to drive to get there."

"Balls," Singer muttered, then stood up. "Well, that complicates things. All right, you two wait here for a bit. I've got some things in my truck."

He was gone a minute later, grumbling something about _idiot Winchesters_ under his breath.

* * *

"I don't like him," Sam announced, as soon as Singer was safely out of earshot. "Who does he think he is, barging in like this? He _still_ hasn't explained what he's doing here."

Dean shivered. "He was gonna," he said weakly. "I kind of distracted him."

"Do you think he's really a hunter who knows Dad?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "Maybe. Probably."

Sam's lips tightened into a frown as he looked over the wounds on his legs and the gash on his side. "These look pretty bad. Do they hurt a lot?"

_Like a bitch. _"Not so much."

"This one's looking kinda puffy and red," he said, reaching out a finger to poke at the gash along his ribs.

"_Ow_, fuck, Sam!" Dean hissed. "Leave it alone!"

"Sorry, sorry," Sam apologized, lifting his hands away hastily. "But… it's bleeding a little, Dean, maybe I should press on it…"

"_No_," he snarled. "Don't touch it."

"We need Dad." Sam's voice was quiet and pained. "He'd know what to do."

Dean let the silence stretch out between them while he pondered that.

Dad _would _know what to do, and Dean obviously _didn't_.

It wasn't that Sam was blaming him—_Was he?—_but it still felt accusatory. Dean was supposed to be in charge, he was supposed to protect his brother, and he was supposed to be able to remember if the guy with the baseball cap was a really an old friend. But he couldn't do any of those things. He was hurt and sick, and he had no idea how to get them out of this mess.

The rain pounded harder on the roof of the shack, and a chill ran through him. He opened his mouth to ask Sam to pull the blanket up over him, but Sam jumped up before he could say anything, and went to stand by the window, turning his back on Dean and peering out though the plastic tarp.

He knew what Sam was doing. It was a transparent move meant to hide the fact that he was crying again. He was scared and he wanted his father, and instead of comforting him, Dean was just making things worse, snapping at him when he was offering to help.

After a minute he heard a shout from outside—Singer, obviously—and Sam disappeared through the door without looking back at him.

He was cold. The blanket was down at the end of the bed, so he pushed himself up painfully, first curling onto his side—_ouch_—and then pushing up with his hands. Stretching forward to grab the blanket awakened all kinds of unpleasant sensations, so he tried to snatch the blanket and lie back down in one more-or-less smooth movement. Shaking out the blanket require more energy and motivation than he could muster, though, so he wound up with the blanket bunched mostly around his hips, leaving his legs and feet exposed. They were still cold.

Just that small exertion left him panting for breath. God, he must really be messed up.

Sam struggled back in a few minutes later, his face dripping and his hair slicked down by the rain, a five-gallon plastic water bottle in each hand. There was a backpack with a red cross slung over his shoulders, presumably Singer's first aid kit. Singer came in just behind him, lugging a heavy-looking canvas case, with a pair of shovels and some other equipment piled on top.

Dean watched, nerves twitching in his belly, as Singer unpacked the smaller kit, laying out gauze and scissors, gloves, sponges, tape, and bandages. It wasn't that different from Dad's first aid kit, and he felt a little relieved. But then Singer opened the canvas case and started removing equipment Dad had never used: a stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, a bag of clear fluid for an IV, a curled length of plastic tubing, and some other wicked-looking objects he didn't want to think about.

Sam's thoughts were obviously running on similar lines. "Are you gonna use all that? Are you some kind of doctor?"

"Combat medic," Singer said, plucking a thermometer out of one of the compartments of the canvas case and handing it to Dean. "Not sure what we'll need yet. I need to get a good look at those cuts. You allergic to anything?"

"I don't think so," Dean started, "but—"

"Put that thermometer in and close your mouth around it, kid."

The man's gruff manner was beginning to grate on him. "I know how to use a thermometer!"

Singer's mouth twitched. "Then shut your trap and show me. And you—Sam—get me whatever towels you've got in this dump that aren't soaking wet."

"We don't have any left."

"Well, get me a couple of t-shirts, then. We're gonna need something to soak up the water when we irrigate the cuts."

Dean shook his head emphatically. Not happening, end of discussion. No way was he going through _that_ again. If there was an infection, they could just smear some antibiotic cream on it or get him some pills.

"We already did that," Sam protested, echoing Dean's thoughts. "I cleaned them all out."

"Well, we're gonna do it again."

"Can't you just take him to a doctor?" Sam asked. "He needs antibiotics and stitches and stuff, in a clinic where it's clean! We'll pay you back, whatever it costs!"

"It's not a matter of money. With these kinds of injuries…"

Sam's tone turned to pleading. "You could say you're our uncle, and Dean got clawed by a bear or something. Please? Just drop us off at the hospital and sign the papers. You don't have to stay or anything."

Singer sighed. "Sam, your brother was clawed up by a creature that isn't supposed to exist outside of legends and folk tales. You can't just show up like that at a clinic without drawing a lot of attention to yourself, and I'm pretty sure you kids would rather avoid that."

"Leave it, Sammy," Dean mumbled. He couldn't stand hearing his brother beg a stranger for help, and he didn't have the energy to move, anyway.

"And I've got a few hunters' remedies the local clinics don't know about. Like it or not, I'm the best source of help you're gonna get. If your daddy were here, he'd tell you that."

"Well, he's _not_ here," Sam told him hotly, "so how can we know that?"

"Of course he's not here, the damn fool's in prison."

Sam gaped up at him. "How did you—"

"_I'm_ here because John asked me to come look for the two of you before you got yourselves sliced to pieces." Kneeling down at Dean's side, he added quietly, "I'm just sorry I was late."

It was enough to rouse Dean from his stupor. "_Dad_ asked you to come here? How'd he know where we were?"

"From what I understand, he didn't, not until recently. You two covered your tracks and didn't leave much of a trail." He held out his hand for the thermometer, read it, and frowned. "102.3. Not so good."

"We didn't want CPS to find us," Sam put in, and Dean nodded tiredly.

"Well, he's been downright frantic, and I can't say I blame him. You two disappeared and no one's seen you for almost three months."

"But we wrote him that we were okay," Dean said, a little defensively. He couldn't quite imagine his father becoming frantic over anything, much less sending out people to look for them.

Singer shot him a sharp look. "Did you think he was just sitting on his thumbs, waiting for you to send him a monthly postcard? Hold out your arm."

Singer felt his pulse for a few seconds, frowning in concentration, then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and placed a stethoscope on the inside of his elbow. "So why'd he call _you_?" Dean asked, hoping to distract himself as Singer pumped up the cuff. "Dad knows other hunters."

Singer was silent for a few seconds, listening and watching the gauge, then scowled, ripping off the Velcro cuff. "Blood pressure's pretty low." He rummaged in the canvas case, coming up with a small bottle of prescription pills. "Get me a cup of water," he told Sam. "And he called _me_, I guess, because John might know a handful of hunters, but none of 'em have been much help in finding you two so far. And I was just a day's drive away. And…" He sighed. "Maybe he finally decided finding his boys was worth swallowing his pride and asking for my help."

He handed Dean a pill and the water. "Aspirin and codeine," he answered Dean's unasked question. "It'll help."

"So how did you know to come here?" Sam asked.

"John finally gave me a call yesterday. Got a letter that made him desperate enough, I suppose. Which one of you is the genius who wrote the letter about the animal that was bothering you at night?"

Sam shook his head, confused. "Me. But I didn't tell him where we were…"

"Your father read it to me. Almost as good as a trail of breadcrumbs." Dean jerked as Singer started gently wetting the gauze on his shoulder. "Hold still, this is gonna hurt a bit," he told Dean quietly, then continued, "You said you'd gone _up_ to the university, which put you south of Madison, from what we could figure. You dropped a couple more hints about Indian tribes and living somewhere without running water, and it wasn't too hard to put together. Take it easy, kid," he said when Dean flinched away from his probing fingers, pressing the skin around the gash on his shoulder.

"That hurts!"

Singer gave him a sympathetic look, but didn't stop what he was doing. "John can be a pompous ass sometimes, but he's not stupid and he knows you well enough. He had the feeling you two were hunting that thing on your own."

"It was stalking _us_," Dean bit out. "Didn't have much choice."

"Well, as for whether or not you had a choice, I've got plenty to say about that, but now's not the time. Hand me that," he said, pointing to one of the large five-gallon water bottles Sam had lugged in.

Singer picked up a large plastic syringe—minus the needle, Dean was relieved to note—and filled it with water. "I'm going to flush the wound. I'll just start with this scrape on your leg… Hang tight."

"But that's not even infected—" Sam started, but Dean's lower shin was suddenly lit with a blowtorch.

"_Ah! _What the _hell_!" The hot, sharp pain was so intense he wrenched his leg out of Singer's grasp, trying to roll away despite the man's restraining hand. "Stop, stop!"

"Get away from him!" Sam yelled, pushing Singer's hand away and the offending syringe of water with it. "What the hell are you doing to him? Why's it smoking like that?"

"I was hoping that wouldn't happen. I'm sorry, but if it reacts like that, we've got to keep going."

"What the fuck did you use?" Dean hissed. "Hydrochloric acid?"

"Holy water," Singer said calmly, refilling the syringe from the plastic bottle. "Repels demonic spirits, which is exactly what the Big Bad Wolf out there was. Those cuts are contaminated-"

"So he needs _antibiotics_," Sam snarled, "not salt water that someone said a few Latin words over. It's probably got all kinds of bacteria in it!"

"Bacteria's not the problem here, and we'll get him some antibiotics if he needs them. But penicillin ain't gonna do squat against this kind of thing, trust me."

It took his listless brain a second to really comprehend what Bobby was saying. "Wait a minute, you mean I'm contaminated by a demon?" he yelped. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You got clawed up by a demonic spirit, is what I'm saying," Bobby corrected. "When a thing like that draws blood, the wound doesn't heal right unless we do something to counteract it."

Sam gave him an incredulous look. "So you're just going to squirt holy water on him and what, that's going to fix it?"

"That's right," Singer answered evenly. "Won't be easy, but I don't know any other way. If you want your brother to heal—"

"But it made him scream!"

Still breathless, Dean glared at his brother. "Didn't _scream_, 'm not a girl."

"Yes, you did. And that was only from one of the smaller scrapes. You need to knock him out first," he told Singer, ignoring Dean's "Shut up, Sammy."

"I gave him codeine. That'll help some. But I can't dope him up too much, because if he's blitzed out I won't be able to tell if it's working or not."

Dean opened his mouth to object to that—he didn't want to be sedated into unconsciousness, but Singer's plan sounded downright demented, not to mention painful as hell—but Sam beat him to it. "Prove it."

Bobby looked exasperated. "Prove _what_?"

Sam stood up suddenly, stalked over to the table in two quick strides, grabbed the Bowie, and turned to face Singer. "I'm serious. I don't know you and I don't trust you, and you're hurting my brother. Our dad never used holy water for anything like this." Dean could hear the strain in his voice, but the look in his eyes was uncompromising. "So before you start pouring it all over Dean… prove it."

"Sam," Dean started, "put the knife down, this isn't—"

With a quick movement, Sam sliced the knife across his forearm, leaving a two-inch cut that instantly started dripping blood down his arm.

"Goddamn fool! What'd you do that for?" Singer cried, as Sam hissed in pain. He turned away, but Dean could see his eyes tearing.

"Oh, for Chrissakes…" He pushed himself up to a sitting position, ignoring the way his arm shook under him. This was all happening too fast, and his brain was getting too foggy to really figure it out. "Are you okay?"

"Show me." Sam's voice was unsteady, but he held his bloody arm out in Singer's direction. "Use the holy water on _me_, Mr. Singer. I want to see what it does."

"Oh, for the love of…" Singer shook his head in disgust. "You're a Winchester through and through, I guess. Well, come back over here, then."

Sam's muscles tensed as Singer grabbed his wrist and squirted the water onto his cut, washing the blood away. Sam flinched, but the holy water didn't do anything strange like bubble up or hiss, and after a few seconds, he relaxed in relief. "Doesn't hurt."

"It's not deep," Singer said, peering at it closely, then handed Sam one of the gauze bandages. "Hold this on it, tight. We'll bandage it and you'll be fine."

Sam nodded, then pointed at Dean. "Now do it to him again. I want to see what happens."

Dean had time to mutter a quick "Oh shit," before Singer grasped his knee and squirted the remaining water in the syringe into one of the ragged cuts along his thigh.

The burn was almost instantaneous, and he let out a hoarse shout before he could clamp down on it. He squeezed his fists around the edge of the blanket and screwed his eyes shut, but not before he caught a glimpse of the tendrils of smoky steam rising off his leg. _Fuck fuck fuck_. His brother was talking—_Dean, open your eyes, I'm sorry_—but he couldn't respond. All he could do was breathe in and out, in and out, waiting for the sharp sting to fade.

When he opened his eyes again, his brother was hovering beside him, looking at him with a mixture of worry and apology. "Are you all right?"

"No!"

"Uh, I guess the holy water works."

"Fuck you, Sammy." He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a shaky hand, surreptitiously swiping the wetness at the corners of his eyes at the same time. "You're such a fucking drama queen."

Singer grunted, apparently in agreement, and fixed Sam with an impatient look. "Well, now we've got that settled, can we get on with it?" Sam gave him a sheepish nod. "Good, because I'm gonna need your help. This isn't going to be easy on your brother," he said flatly. After a slight delay, he added, "And you can call me Bobby. Not Mr. Singer."

Dean settled back on the bed, trying to relax and calm his breathing. God, he wasn't looking forward to this. His limbs were trembling, only partly from the cold.

"You ready, kid?" Bobby asked.

How was he supposed to answer that?

"It's Dean," he said hoarsely. "Go ahead. Just…" He swallowed. "Try not to overcook me, okay?"

Bobby gave him a grim smile, which wasn't as reassuring as he'd have liked.

* * *

It was every bit as bad as he'd thought it was going to be.

"Bite down on this," Bobby told him after a few truly uncomfortable minutes, pushing a wad of rolled-up bandage into his mouth. It muffled his cries, and he was ridiculously grateful. It was bad enough to have to lie there in a pair of ratty boxer briefs in front of this Bobby person, but to have to hear himself groaning and sobbing like a girl… It was just embarrassing.

Sam was really getting into his role of Florence fucking Nightingale, whispering encouragement to him, his mouth close to Dean's ear: _Just a little more, Dean, you're doing great, hang on, you're gonna be fine._ None of it helped because his brother's delivery was all wrong. He was totally freaked out, his voice cracking. His acting skills apparently didn't extend to this kind of situation, and it was too damn bad, because Dean really wanted to believe him.

He tried to keep himself still instead of cringing away every time Bobby raised the syringe, but he was obviously not being as cooperative as he thought, because pretty soon Bobby started instructing Sam where to place his hands to help hold him down. Sam's hands were warm and they felt good on his skin—he was shivering now, more than before—but he hated knowing he'd put his brother in this position, of having to restrain him to keep him from jerking away while he was moaning in pain.

He'd never really experienced pain. He had endurance and he knew how to take a punch, but none of his dad's training had prepared him for this kind of fiery agony, the feeling of vulnerability and helplessness, and the unrelenting burning. It drew tears from his eyes and stole his breath. There was no escaping it, no way to curl up and hide from it, not when his brother was kneeling right on his arm and pushing down on his shoulder, and Bobby's free hand was clamped down on his uninjured hip.

After a while, he could tell the codeine was working. The pain from the abrasions and cuts had faded down to nothing, and when he wasn't being doused with fire water, he actually felt pretty good. His head was buzzed and he was only vaguely aware of what Sam and Bobby were doing. But the codeine didn't do shit for him when Bobby used the holy water. The pain assaulted him from out of the fog at full intensity, out of context and out of proportion, as if normal painkillers just didn't work on supernatural discomfort. It was too sharp, and it jarred him back into himself without warning. It was disorienting and exhausting. He was too out of it to brace himself and prepare for it, and he couldn't seem to form the words to tell the others what was happening to him.

"How much longer?" he heard Sam ask at one point. "That's it, you've gone over all the cuts. Why can't we stop now?"

"Look here, kid." Bobby's gloved fingers pressed at the edges of the wound on his hip, but it didn't really hurt. Then without warning, Bobby shot a stream of water directly into the wound. The water hissed and rose up in a cloud of steam, while Dean moaned at the burn and struggled against the hands restraining him.

Bobby's voice was rock-steady, offering no chance of reprieve. "We keep going until the holy water stops reacting, and your brother stops doin' _that_."

He spit out the gag. "Fuck off," he managed.

"That's the Winchester spirit," Bobby chuckled, patting his leg. "Had to pull an arrow out of John once when we went after a wendigo. Afterwards he sat up, said thanks, and punched me right on the jaw."

"Good," he mumbled. Sam laughed, then sobered, prodding the rolled-up bandage at his mouth until he clamped down on it again with his teeth.

It was really pouring now. It clattered on the roof so loudly Sam and Bobby had to raise their voice just to be heard. It was easier to focus on the tones and the sounds than on the words themselves. His codeine-fogged brain could only latch onto the conversation in bits and pieces he could barely comprehend. He let himself float, trying to lose himself in the thrumming of the rain and breathing through the burning when it came.

"Fever's still pretty high."

"That's his body's way of fighting the infection. It's not necessarily a bad sign. Wet one of those t-shirts and start rubbing him down, it'll help."

He was shivering with cold, and Sam was making it worse, wiping his arms and chest with a wet cloth, laying a firm hand on him when he tried to squirm away. He began running a song through his mind, trying to take his mind off the here and now, turning up the volume in his head as much as he could, letting the guitar riffs and the drums soothe him as they always did.

"…not random symbols and graffiti, it's a damn summoning spell, which John would've known if he'd sent me a copy."

_if it keeps on raining levee's going to break_

"…but I've never done a salt-and-burn, just Dean."

"Well, you're gonna do one today. This rain is a blessing in disguise. We'll have to use a little kerosene to get the fire started, but the trees are saturated and there's no real danger."

_when the levee breaks I'll have no place to stay_

"…think it's okay now, it's hardly reacting anymore on his shoulder."

"Those slices on his side are the ones still giving him trouble. They're the deepest… Hand me that bottle again."

The pain flamed up again along his side, and he choked down a sob. "Easy, boy." Bobby's hand combed through his hair and wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Not much longer. The worst of it is over."

_crying won't help you, praying won't do you no good_

"There. See that? Hardly steaming at all."

"Dean? Hear that? Just a little longer, okay?"

_when the levee breaks, mama, you got to move_

He closed his eyes.

* * *

By the time he woke up the next morning, the waheela was dust in the ground, and Sam had packed up their meager belongings.

They waited for Bobby in his truck while he took care of the final arrangements. The weapons from the Impala's trunk had already been stowed in the back seat; somebody named Isaac was going to drive the car over to Bobby's later in the week.

It was a good eight hour drive to Bobby's place in South Dakota, and with the three of them crowded together in the cabin of the truck, Dean could tell it was going to be unpleasant. Already, his side was sending out tendrils of stinging pain and his hip was aching. He squirmed, trying to find a comfortable way to sit.

"You feeling okay, Dean?" Sam asked doubtfully, raising a tentative hand to his forehead. "Your fever's still pretty high."

"I'll live."

There was a pause, and then his brother offered, "Bobby said he's got room for us, back at his house. We could stay there till Dad gets out."

"We don't know this guy, Sammy. And Dad won't be out for months yet."

"He seems okay, though."

"Let's see what Dad says."

Knowing that they'd be able to call their father and talk to him, that the important decisions weren't Dean's to make anymore, was a huge relief. It really was. No more hiding out in the woods, or worrying about money, or living with the constant fear something might happen to his brother while he was in charge. But he wasn't sure he could just go back to living under his father's thumb anymore, swallowing his reactions and obeying Dad's orders without question. He wasn't going to accept the role he'd played until now, carrying the equipment, wielding the shovel, and maybe, maybe, getting to do a little research if he asked nicely enough and behaved himself.

He was a hunter now, whether his father liked it or not.

They heard a _whoosh_, and a bright light flashed in the rearview mirror. Looking back at the woods, he could see Bobby hurrying toward them. The shack was in flames.

_Good riddance, _he thought,twisting back to lean against the window, trying to ease the burn in his side.

Sam suddenly smiled to himself, then gave an aborted snort through his nose. Dean gave him a questioning look. "I was just thinking what I'm gonna say when my next teacher asks us to write about what we did on our summer vacation."

Dean laughed. "Say that you went camping."

_We do what we do and we shut up about it,_ his father always said.

Good thing he was practiced at keeping secrets.


	7. Chapter 7

**Part Seven**

Dean slept through his dad's first phone call, the day after they arrive in Sioux Falls, but it was just as well. For the first two days, he was feverish and miserable, too groggy from the painkillers and nauseous from the antibiotics to be able to really carry on an actual conversation. Or not one he could remember later, anyway.

Sam filled him in on the third day, when he was sitting up and eating his first real meal, a grilled cheese sandwich and soup, off a tray in Bobby's spare bedroom. Dean wolfed down the food, ravenous, trying to ignore the way Sam's eyes were tracking his every movement. It was a little creepy, but Dean figured he'd be doing the same if their situations were reversed: checking for a wince when he shifted his position, or a grimace hidden under a cocky smile. Making sure Dean's "_I'm fine, Sammy" _was for real.

It was understandable, maybe even reasonable, but it still bothered him. He couldn't avoid the implication: that Sam didn't accept what he said at face value anymore. That he couldn't trust Dean the way he once had. Maybe the whole incident had convinced him that Dean wasn't the strong, competent big brother he'd thought he was. If Sam had decided he needed to make up his own mind from now on, draw his own conclusions, who could blame him?

But it felt _off_, and Dean couldn't help wondering whether something had changed irrevocably in his brother, as if he'd experienced a fundamental loss of faith in his family.

"Dad called last night," Sam told him, interrupting his brooding thoughts. "You were asleep."

"Did you talk to him?" He could only hope that Sam hadn't tried out his new attitude on their father. Not yet, at least.

Sam's lips quirked up. "Well, Bobby talked to him first. He wouldn't let me stay in the room while they were talking, but he was yelling loud enough that I could hear everything from the hallway. Called him an irresponsible jackass and said he ought to be ashamed of himself."

"Ashamed of himself? Why? Dad never meant for any of this to happen." If anyone needed to be ashamed of himself, it was Dean.

"What do you mean, _why_?" Sam was looking at him like the fever had left him bereft of a few critical brain cells. "It's obvious why."

"Well, it's not obvious to me," he said, annoyed. "I'm not blaming Dad for my decisions. It's my own fault I got hurt. I was the one who decided we should stay."

"That might be true, but it's _Dad_ who left us without anyone to turn to!" Sam bit out, with a bitterness and anger Dean had never heard from him. "I heard Bobby telling him that, and it's true! He should've made arrangements in case anything happened to him, but he didn't, and-"

"Come on, you know he did. Pastor Jim and Caleb…"

"But he didn't even know Pastor Jim was out of the country, so what kind of a useless arrangement was that? And when was the last time he talked to Caleb?"

"Then maybe we should have tried harder to call Dad, Sam, or left him an address where he could get a letter to us!" he blurted. It was a thought he hadn't really allowed himself to voice until now, but it had been lurking there, just under the surface, for weeks, worrying at him. "We didn't even _try_ calling the prison. We just assumed that we couldn't. Maybe if we'd been able to talk to Dad, he'd have told us what to do. Where to go."

His answer just seemed to infuriate his brother. "Stop excusing him! We're just kids, we're not supposed to have to find out how to contact our father in prison without anybody knowing where we are! We were _homeless_, Dean. We should have been in school, not living in an abandoned shack in the woods, or some stupid shelter for runaways…" His voice cracked, and Dean could see the edges of his mouth quiver. For a second he thought his brother's control was going to crack, but then he sucked in a harsh breath and his mouth turned down into a scowl. "We should never have had to go to a place like that."

It was the first time Sam had said anything about what had happened at Harbor House, and it hit him like a slap. He'd been naively hoping that Sam had forgotten about it, or at least had been able to put it behind him, but… no.

If he'd thought about it at all, he'd have realized that Sam wouldn't let something like that go. He'd analyze it and brood about it, and come to his own conclusions about what led to it and whose fault it was. He was hurting, and Dean should have seen that the only outlet for his feelings was anger and resentment.

"I'm sorry for that, Sammy," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry, you have no idea. I should have gotten you out of there sooner. You told me you wanted to leave, but I didn't listen."

"_No!_" Sam snapped. "Stop taking all of this on yourself. I don't blame _you_, I blame Dad. He's our father, and he should have had a better back-up plan than calling two people who weren't even around!"

Dean sighed. He didn't really disagree with Sam—God knows he'd had these thoughts himself—but what was the point of dredging this all up now, when it was all over and they were safe? "It was just bad timing, Sam. And bad luck."

Sam huffed. "Well, Bobby told Dad it was bad judgment. Which it _was_. He asked him why we didn't have _his_ number to call too." He paused. "I don't know what Dad told him, but Bobby said, 'Yeah, I guess I meant it at the time, but that was years ago.'"

"I guess they had some kind of fight."

Sam nodded. "Then, uh, you're not gonna like this part… He said we were lucky to be alive and Dad should have taught us better than to try to take on a waheela by ourselves."

Dean winced. "That's what Bobby said?"

Sam's cheeks reddened. "Actually, he said, 'John, what kind of idiots are you raising who think they can take on a full-fledged hunt armed with stupidity and a couple of silver bullets?'"

"Oh."_ Crap_.

"And he told Dad all about what happened to you and, you know… the holy water."

Dean swallowed against the lump in his throat, then looked away. Of course Bobby would have had to tell Dad everything, he knew that, and getting clawed up isn't something he could have tried to hide, but still, he hated the idea of his father imagining him so damaged. Bad enough that his little brother had to carry those memories.

"Did you talk to him?" he asked again.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, just for a minute, but he sounds okay. Bossy, like usual. 'Watch over your brother and mind Bobby, even if he is a cranky old bastard.' He asked about you. He said he can call again tomorrow night."

Terrific, he thought. Something to look forward to all day tomorrow. What the hell could he possibly say that would explain the long chain of fuck-ups that he was responsible for?

And yet… God, he needed to hear his Dad again.

* * *

They were in Bobby's kitchen the next evening when the phone rang. His palm was sweaty as he took the receiver from Bobby. "Hey, Dad."

"Dean." His father's voice, deep and familiar, sent his heart racing in his chest. "It's good to hear you, son."

"You too."

"Bobby told me all about your run-in with the Beast. You feeling all right?"

"I'm okay."

"Dean." Just one word, stern and impatient. An order.

"Fever's down," he said promptly. "Uh… I'm still pretty sore. My side, leg, and shoulder, mostly. Bobby won't let me move around much yet."

"He knows what he's doing. I need you healed up right, so you listen to him, son."

"Yes, sir."

There was a pause on the line, and when his father spoke again, his tone was harsh. "We're going to have a long talk about what happened back there, Dean. Not now. But don't think for a minute that I approve of what you did. You could have gotten yourself and your brother killed."

"I know I made a mistake," he said quickly. "I'm sorry, I thought I could handle it, I shouldn't have—"

"You sure as hell shouldn't have gone after that thing by yourselves. You're not ready to take on something like that, and what happened to you just proves it." John's voice was rough and unforgiving. He clenched his jaw, too aware of Bobby watching him surreptitiously from the kitchen, but he knew his hurt must be written all over his face. "You're just lucky your brother said what he did in that letter, or I'd never have known where you were or what you were doing. It sounds like Bobby got there just in time."

"I know I screwed up, but Dad, it wasn't like you think, we did the research and we—"

"Not now." His father's tone was final. "I've been worried sick about the two of you. You have no idea."

Dean bit his lip and said nothing.

The answering silence on the other end told him everything he needed to know. He pressed his lips together, waiting. What was there to say? It hadn't taken his father more than twenty seconds to put him right back into the role of the fuck-up kid who never got it right.

"Dean…" His father said finally, and sighed. "I'm sorry. That wasn't what I meant to say to you. Not at all."

_It's what I deserve_, he thought. "It's okay, Dad," he said, straining to get the words out while his throat was swelling up and choking him. "You're right."

"No, that wasn't fair. You made some mistakes, but I never intended you to be living on your own. Believe me, I didn't know Pastor Jim was out of the country. I spoke to that other priest, what's his name…"

"Father Davis."

"He told me there'd been some trouble at the shelter where he sent you, and the two of you left without talking to him."

Dean gave a cynical laugh. _Some trouble_, that was a nice way of putting it. "We couldn't stay there, Dad. And they wanted to put Sammy in foster care. We had to leave."

"You did the right thing, son."

He relaxed, just a bit. "We lived out of the car for a while, and then we found that shack."

"Jesus." There was a pause. "What did you do for money? I left you a bit, but I know it wasn't much…"

"I got your pay from the auto shop."

"And that was enough?"

He could feel sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. "I did a few odd jobs, here and there," he said casually. "And we ate a lot of peanut butter. Tried to make it last."

"All right, put Bobby on again. I've got a few things to square with him."

He wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or let down.

* * *

Dean was flipping through one of Bobby's old auto magazines two days later (_"Muscle Car Review's Top 30 Resto Tips PLUS What You Need to Know Before You Get Your Muscle Car Painted"_) when Bobby sat down on the couch next to him. He had a pile of books and old manuscripts clutched in his arms.

"Put down the comic books, kid," he told Dean, plunking the books down between them. "Got some serious work for you."

A waft of dust billowed up from the couch and Dean gave a little cough. "You need to get a vacuum cleaner, Bobby. Even your dirt has a layer of dust."

Bobby smiled. "There's one in the hall closet, as a matter of fact. And that's a good project for tomorrow, seeing as how you're feeling well enough to cast aspersions on the pristine cleanliness of my home."

"Hey, no offense," Dean said hastily. "I like the lived-in look." He did, in fact, enjoy puttering around, exploring Bobby's cluttered rooms and overstuffed bookshelves. The only other real home he'd stayed in for any period of time had been Pastor Jim's rectory, which was always tidy and plain, with only a smattering of personal items. Bobby had pictures on the walls, photo albums, a stocked-to-the-brim tool shed, even a basement filled with boxes of unlabeled junk. It was about as different as he could imagine from the motel rooms and barely-furnished rental dumps where he'd spent most of his life.

"Well, I'm tickled you approve of my décor," Bobby told him coolly. "But don't think it gets you out of cleaning duty."

He sighed. "Didn't figure it would." He wasn't really objected to the cleaning. Especially since it had the weight of his father's orders behind it.

"Your daddy says he's likely to come up for early parole," Bobby had informed them after speaking to John again that first week. "Prisons are overcrowded. He'll probably be out in another two months or so, so you kids'll be staying here with me until he's released. And before you say anything about not wanting to be a bother," he added, giving Dean a pre-emptive glare, "I've already worked it out with John that you two're gonna help me out around the yard and stuff. Earn your keep."

"We can stay here?" Sam had asked, as if not daring to believe it. He'd already installed himself in Bobby's study as semi-permanent fixture, poring over his lore books day and night. "I don't mind helping out."

"Wait a minute. What's 'and stuff'?" Dean had asked, a little suspiciously. "Like, be your maid, cook and clean?" It was a token protest, though, not more than that. They owed Bobby a huge debt, and besides, they still had nowhere else to go until their dad got out.

"It's whatever I think it is, wise-ass. You two get room and board, and in return you'll make yourselves useful and help me with whatever I need you to do. And now that you mention it," he'd added with a quirk of his lips, "having a maid doesn't sound half-bad…"

Now, Bobby was nodding in satisfaction. "Okay, then. I thought, since you're feeling better, it was time we had what you might call a debriefing. Talk about what went down back there in the woods."

Great. "Look, I've already had that conversation with Dad," Dean said glumly. "He ripped me up one side and down the other. Just so you know."

Bobby chuckled. "Well, knowing John, I'm not surprised, but… that's not exactly what I had in mind." He pointed to the stack of books. "First of all, from what your brother told me, you've got some holes in your research."

"But we figured out what the creature was," he protested. "And how to kill it."

"_That_ part was a lucky guess. I don't deny you managed to figure out what you were dealing with, which isn't bad, for a pair of amateurs. But you missed the biggest clue of all." He took a piece of folded notebook paper out of the back pocket of his jeans, smoothed it out, and placed it on top of the books. It was a copy of the symbols and sigils painted on the walls of their shack. "_This_ is where you kids should have started your research, if you were so determined to figure out what it was."

Dean had heard his father, more than once, talking to Pastor Jim about runes and sigils he'd stumbled on in his hunts, but John had never shown much interest in them himself. "Dad doesn't know much about that kind of thing," he said, a little defensively. "If he's got a question, he calls a friend of his, but—"

"But Jim Murphy's out of the country," Bobby finished. "I know." He shook his head in exasperation at Dean's raised eyebrows. "Don't look so surprised. Hunters are a pretty small community and I know most of 'em. Not everybody's a loner like your dad."

"Guess not."

Over the past few days, from his perch on the couch, he'd had an opportunity to watch Bobby. His phone rang almost constantly, and in between calls about spare parts for old Corvettes, Buicks, and Oldsmobiles, he'd overheard him fielding at least a dozen calls from hunters.

"_I'll get back to you in a few hours. Yes, of course I have to look it up, I'm not a walking grimoire, ya know."_

"_Well it ain't a rakshasa if it got in without an invite, Steve. Could be a regular shapeshifter. Did you get a picture of it? Yep, that's a dead giveaway… Decapitation. Use a silver knife if you want to be on the safe side."_

"I'm not saying it's your fault," Bobby told him. "But as long as you're in my home, you might as well learn something. Who knows, maybe you'll come to appreciate the intellectual side of the job."

Dean eyed the books doubtfully. "Don't hold your breath."

Bobby laughed. "Yeah, John was always more of a slash-and-burn kind of guy too."

Bobby gave him three hours, and by the end, he still hadn't been able to identify half the symbols. He'd made notes all over the page, with arrows and scribbled phrases in the odd language of the books.

"All right, I get the picture," he announced when Bobby came back accompanied by Sam, their arms full of groceries. "Most of these signs are about conjuring spirits and, uh, talking to them, or something."

Bobby looked pleased. "Well, that's close enough, I suppose." He directed Sam to put away the food and came to join Dean on the couch. "Show me what you've managed to find."

He pointed to one of the symbols, a pentagram star inside a circle, with odd markings within each triangular space. "Uh, it says this is the pentagram of Solomon, 'which is to preserve thee from danger, and also to command the Spirits by,'" he quoted. "And these squiggles over here are part of the generation seal—"

"The _moloch familiarium_. Right. And those are runes, you blockhead, not squiggles."

Dean grinned. "It's supposed to make spirits obedient in 'all services,' whatever that means."He showed Bobby the rest, with the information he'd copied from the books. Bobby nodded as he spoke, looking grim.

"Listen closely, kid. They're part of a summoning ritual called the Solomonic Convocation. Whoever painted those sigils on the wall apparently was trying to conjure a powerful spirit they thought they could control. This one here," he added, pointing to a symbol that looked, to Dean, like a meaningless combination of arrows, curves, and angled lines, "that's the key."

"I couldn't find that one in any of the books."

"That's because it's not _in_ these books. I had to make some calls, do a little research myself. It's the seal of a pretty nasty demonic spirit that's supposed to be able to tell of things both past and future. It likes to take the form of a wolf."

Christ, he thought. A demonic fortune teller. What kind of idiots would conjure up something like that? "What happened to the guys who did it, then? The, uh, summoners?"

Bobby shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, but I'm betting they weren't able to control the spirit as well as they thought they could."

Dean shuddered, remembering the feeling of the waheela's claws pulling at his skin and dragging him over the rough ground, its teeth bared and ready to rip out his jugular. "Probably not."

Sam had finished with the groceries and perched himself on the edge of the couch, listening.

"It's a powerful ritual, and the symbols were probably what kept drawing it back to the shack. When you two laid the salt lines, it must have sensed some kind of barrier and that triggered its attack."

"Oh." He swallowed. "So you mean we…"

"I mean you two _ignoramuses_ set up camp in just about the most dangerous place you could have found. Those sigils should've sent alarm bells ringing, but you didn't give them a moment's thought."

He felt nauseous. God, Bobby was right. He'd gotten so used to the markings on the wall that he'd begun to think of them as a sort of gruesome wallpaper. It had never occurred to them that they had any particular meaning. What a fool he he'd been.

Sam spoke up hesitantly, echoing Dean's thoughts. "But Bobby… Dad didn't think they were all that important. We didn't know. We'd never have stayed there if we'd known."

"We're sorry," Dean breathed. "It was stupid." The word reverberated inside him, _stupid stupid stupid_, a castigating throb that made his insides clench. A blunder that nearly got both of them killed, and who knows, maybe Bobby as well, if he'd shown up any earlier.

Bobby shook his head. "I didn't tell you because I want you to _apologize_. I'm just pointing out there's a lot to this business that you need to know, more than being able to shoot straight or dig up a damn grave. Your father never saw eye to eye with me on this, but I figure you kids are still young and you can learn. Next time, don't pull the trigger before you know what you're dealing with."

"I don't want to learn it," Sam muttered, glancing away. "There's not gonna be a next time."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Course there will, Sammy. You'll get over this, and Dad's not going to suddenly change his mind about everything. We just need to be more careful so this kind of thing doesn't happen."

"I'm not suggesting you need to know everything I do, or Jim Murphy does," Bobby said. "But you might want to learn some Latin and read up on some of the more common rituals. I'll give John a nudge in that direction."

"I wouldn't mind learning Latin," Sam admitted. "It's actually supposed to help you understand the roots of English vocabulary and grammar better."

Geek. "Count me out," Dean said quickly. The last thing he wanted was a course in classic languages during his summer vacation. "One of my guidance counselors told me I'm not really, uh, linguistically-oriented." She'd actually said that if he broadened his vocabulary he might not feel the need to swear so much, but he'd gotten the message.

"Well, your daddy says you're pretty good with your hands," Bobby said, after a pause. "There's plenty of work around the salvage yard you can help me with, now that you're feeling better. You can earn your keep that way."

Dean grinned. "Sounds good to me."

* * *

"Come on out from under that hood and take a break," Bobby called to him one morning in late August. He was raising a pitcher of water in invitation, and Dean nodded tiredly. He'd been trying to change the spark plugs on the old Mustang, and the last one had been a bitch to remove. He was covered in sweat and grease.

He jogged back from the salvage yard to the porch, frowning at the slight twinge in his hip that didn't seem to want to go away. Bobby was still insisting that he couldn't train yet, not until his leg healed a little more and the cuts on his side closed up. They'd been the worst infected and the healing process was slow and uncomfortable.

Most of the other wounds had already healed. Bobby still made him smear Vaseline over the deeper cuts every day to keep them moist, over his loud protests—it was disgusting and it smelled—but the scars had turned out to be a lot smaller than he thought they'd be, so maybe Bobby knew what he was doing.

"Thanks, Bobby," he said, accepting the glass of water from him. He leaned back against one of the porch pillars and chugged it down, then filled another.

"Give that Ford a rest for a while," Bobby told him. "I've got a project I'd like you to help me with."

"Can't you get Sam to do it? It wouldn't kill him to get his nose out of those books for once."

"Your brother's busy enough. Got him tracking down some information on a voodoo charm for a hunt in Louisiana." Bobby grinned. "Kid's a natural researcher."

Great. As if Sam wasn't enough of a geek already. "Fine," he agreed grudgingly. "What do you need me to do?"

"Thought I'd fix up the back porch, and I could use your help. Some of those floor boards are rotted through and the whole thing's warped."

"Aw, come on, Bobby, I don't have the first clue how to put in a porch."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Don't try to get off the hook, kid. You can wield a hammer, can't you? Use a saw?"

"Course I can," he scoffed. Nothing to it, right?

"We'll see how it goes, then. Don't push yourself too hard. The new boards are stacked along the side of the house. I'll get the tools and we'll meet out back."

By the time he brought all the wood to the back of the house, Bobby had already started removing the old floorboards. He handed Dean a pry bar, and together they pulled up the rest of the damaged boards from the porch.

He felt awkward and uncertain with the carpentry tools, although he tried to hide it. Give him a grease-spattered engine and a wrench and he felt at home, but working with wood was completely different. The fact was, John had never bothered to do much home repair. If something was broken, they mostly just ignored it until they moved on to the next place.

Bobby's movements were sure and smooth, and he seemed to assume that Dean could follow his lead without too many explanations. But when it was time to start fitting the new boards into place, he started having trouble. He was supposed to drill through the top of each board into the joist, and he worked slowly, trying to get it right. Don't drill too deep, Bobby instructed, and keep the hole centered. But despite his efforts, the bit slipped away from him more than once.

"Watch it, Dean!" Bobby sounded exasperated after the second time. "Make a pilot hole first to guide the bit."

"Sorry," he said. "Never done this before."

Bobby's eyebrows rose in surprise, but all he said was, "Well, I'm telling you now how to do it, so get with it, boy."

Later, when Bobby set him to nailing down the edging along the sides, Dean ruined so many nails with glancing blows that bent the nails into pretzels, Bobby had to come over and coach him on how to hold the hammer. He looked a little perplexed with Dean's lack of basic skills, but didn't say anything.

Once they finally got the floorboards in place, Bobby gave him the jigsaw and told him to trim the excess length off the boards along the edge of the porch. He watched Dean carefully at first, presumably to make sure he didn't start carving curlicues into the wood, then moved off to start sanding down the planks.

He started off slowly, making sure to keep a straight line and not draw attention to the fact that it was his first time using the tool, but it really wasn't that hard. He picked up speed and confidence, moving smoothly along. Piece of cake.

Bobby's hollered "Dean!" startled him out of his absorption and he looked up to see him frowning at him and shaking his head.

He stopped the saw. "What?"

"You're moving forward too fast. Can't you hear the strain on the blade? Slow down!"

"Oh," he said, embarrassed. "Sorry. Wasn't really paying attention."

"Yeah, I can see that," Bobby said peevishly. "Well, let's take a break. We've been working for a couple of hours straight. Go get us something to drink."

When he came back with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses, Bobby was staring down at the new floor. To Dean's eye, it looked fine, straight and level, but Bobby's expression was pensive and unhappy.

"Have a seat, kid." He patted the new floor beside him. "We need to talk a bit."

Dean poured himself a glass, then settled down beside Bobby, grinning sheepishly. "I guess my skills are kind of rusty, huh?"

"They ain't _rusty_," Bobby told him flatly. "Don't flatter yourself. They're nonexistent. It's a miracle you didn't smash your thumb with the hammer or slice off a limb with the jigsaw."

Ouch. He hadn't actually been _that_ useless, had he? "Dad's never shown me how to do any of this stuff," he said, embarrassed. "He doesn't even own a saw."

Bobby nodded, then took a long drink. He was quiet long enough that Dean was fairly sure he was gearing up to say something really unpleasant.

He didn't disappoint. "The thing is," he said slowly, as if he was trying to figure something out, "Sam told me you worked on construction for three days up in Milwaukee. Says you got paid really well too."

Damn Sam and his big mouth."That's right, but… I wasn't working carpentry. I did drywall."

Bobby met his gaze. "And you never had to use a drill or a saw?" he asked pointedly. "Or a _hammer_?"

"I helped with other things. Uh…" Shit, what did drywallers do exactly? "Painting and stuff."

There was a long pause while Bobby considered this. "Well, I guess that would make sense," he said slowly. "Except I've been reading there's a lot of unemployment in the cities. Situation's getting so bad, it's hard for skilled workers to find jobs, let alone a sixteen-year-old kid with no experience and no papers."

Dean scowled at the sarcastic tone, turning away to hide the blush on his cheeks. "What's the matter, Bobby, I'm not good enough at manual labor for you? I've been working out here with you for three hours and this is the thanks I get? Next time, get Sam to do the job. It's not my fault you're too cheap to hire a real goddamn worker!"

"Watch your mouth. And don't try to change the subject." The look in Bobby's eye was relentless. "Got something you want to get off your chest?"

"Fuck off!" he ground out, jumping to his feet. "I don't give a shit whether you believe me or not. I'm sorry my drilling doesn't come up to your high fucking standards. I'm going inside."

He managed to take four angry strides before Bobby thundered, "Get back here!" sounding just like his father in one of his _don't-give-me-any-of-that-crap_ moods.

He couldn't help it, it was ingrained into him: he stopped.

"Don't walk away from me when I'm talking to you," Bobby growled. "You're almost a grown man, and in my book that means being able to have a civilized conversation without swearing or stomping off. Even when the subject's not to your liking."

Dean sighed, lowering his head but not turning back. "I'm listening," he muttered. "Say what you gotta say."

"Sit yourself back down here, Dean. I ain't gonna talk to your back."

Bobby waited, firm and uncompromising, until he was seated next to him again. When he started to talk, though, his tone was softer. "I know you never worked a day in construction, so don't bother denying it."

"Fine! I lied to Sam, all right?" he said bitterly, his jaw clenched. "Why the hell does it matter to you? We needed money and I got it."

"Calm down, son." Bobby refilled his glass and handed it to him. "I know it's none of my business. But you're here under my roof and your daddy's put you under my care. The way I figure, that means I've got some responsibility toward you, beyond feeding you and keeping you out of the rain."

Dean let the cool liquid soothe his throat, and took a minute to get his breathing back under control. Damn it, damn it, he wasn't ready for this conversation, but he couldn't see any way out of it at this point.

It would have been easier if he didn't like Bobby so much. The rough exterior and gruff manners didn't bother him. Bobby was knowledgeable and easygoing, for the most part. He seemed to have a special fondness for Sam—maybe because he recognized a fellow bookworm—and Dean appreciated that. Despite their rocky start, he'd opened his home to them, and he seemed perfectly happy to spend an evening telling his own hunting stories, explaining how to trap a kitsune or counteract a death omen. Unlike Dad, he didn't think Dean's questions were stupid—or if he did, he never said so—and he never told him he was too young to know.

It gutted him that five minutes from now, Bobby was going to be looking at him differently, and there'd be no going back from that.

He drained the glass, wiped his mouth, and sighed. Time to face the music. "It's okay, Bobby. Ask whatever you want."

It didn't take long for Bobby to find out the salient details: how much money they'd had and what they spent it on, when it all ran out, what happened at Home Depot, and how he tried selling sandwiches. "And then it rained all the next day," he finished. "I couldn't make any money, and it was time to go back to Sam. And I just… couldn't go back with nothing. It was my responsibility to get the money."

"Did you steal it, Dean?"

"No, sir." He didn't want Bobby thinking he was just a common thief. Even if the real explanation was worse.

After a moment of silence, Bobby spoke up again. "C'mon, kid. Come clean. Where'd you get the money?"

"I worked for it!" he fumed, feeling trapped and angry and ashamed. "Don't ask me anything else, okay?"

"Look, it's pretty clear you were doing something shady. I've got eyes, and I can see that something's been eating at you, so spit it out already."

"Is this your version of therapy? I don't need to confess anything, Bobby, so back off!"

"Hunters need to steer clear of the law," Bobby told him, his low, calm voice an annoying counterpoint to Dean's rising tone. "You of all people should know that, with your daddy locked up like he is."

Dean scowled. _Low blow, bastard._

"If you were into some kind of illegal business, I need to know about it as long as you're living under my roof." Bobby's gaze turned hard and piercing. "Was it drugs? Were you dealing?"

Oh, for fuck's sake. "_Not_ drugs. You need me to spell it out for you?" he snarled. "Fine! I earned it doing the only job I was qualified to do." He took a deep breath, then deliberately met Bobby's eyes. "I whored myself out."

There. He'd said it. Bobby turned away, but not before Dean saw the look of shock and revulsion in his eyes.

He felt his heart plummet into his shoes, but once he'd started, it turned out, there was more he wanted to say. "I hustled for two nights," he added, furious at Bobby, at himself, at the stupid porch. He wanted to rub Bobby's nose in it, punish him for forcing the words out of him, for dragging the secret into the light of day. "Turned tricks. Hand jobs, blow jobs, full service. Did whatever they asked. Believe me, it pays better than construction."

"Jesus Christ, Dean," Bobby muttered.

He felt his throat swelling, despite his anger. It ached to swallow, and tears were prickling at the corners of his eyes. _Shit_. He needed the anger to stop himself from breaking down, to protect himself from whatever he'd see in Bobby's eyes once the man could bring himself to look at him again: disgust, probably. Embarrassment, definitely.

Rejection.

Well, he needed to get used to it, he supposed. He'd crossed a line that could never be forgiven or understood. Even among hunters.

The silence grew unbearable.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "I shouldn't have said it like that. I mean, you don't need the details."

Bobby nodded, still not looking at him. "Sure as hell don't. Word to the wise, kid. Some things don't need explaining."

_You're the one who made me say it_. "Guess not."

"It was just that one time?" Bobby asked, and he nodded.

More silence.

"Listen, Bobby, I'm going to leave," he said quietly, hoping it sounded more like a statement of intent rather than a plea for forgiveness. "It's okay. If you can keep Sam till Dad gets out, I'll go back to that shelter in Minneapolis. They said they could put me into a group hostel, and-"

"What?" Bobby's head snapped back around, and he was giving Dean a look of confusion. "You want to leave?"

Not _want_, he thought in resignation. _Have to. _"I was planning to go back anyway," he lied. "It's called transitional housing, they said, and I can stay there for a few months. They'll help me get a job."

"Are you under the impression I'm throwing you out, boy?" Bobby looked appalled.

"I know you're not," he said quickly. Even after what he'd just revealed, he knew Bobby wasn't the kind of guy who'd toss him out into the street. "It's okay, it's my decision. I'll tell my dad and Sammy I left to get work. I'll leave in the morning."

"_No_, Dean," Bobby said emphatically. "Why do you think you have to leave?"

He felt a drop of wetness slide down his cheek, and wiped it away angrily. "Nobody wants a whore living under his roof," he mumbled.

"For the love of God, you're not a—" Bobby sounded pained. "Look, I'm doing this all wrong, I know." He sighed. "Not gonna lie to you. When I saw the way the two of you were living, back in that shack, I knew you were strapped for money, and the story your brother told me just didn't sit right. He didn't say anything," Bobby told him quickly, forestalling his questions, "but I've got instincts, and I've got eyes. I've seen those labor markets in the cities, here and there, and they're always filled with big, strong guys who look like they've been around the block a few times. No way a kid like you would be picked up for construction work."

He lips twisted in a cynical half-smile. "Wish I'd known that before I went up. Instead of wasting my time trying to get a job, I'd have had a few more days to make some _real_ money."

"That's _enough_!" Bobby snapped with more than a touch of anger, and Dean hunched in on himself miserably. "I had a feeling you'd gotten into something heavy, but you weren't talking, so I didn't want to press."

"So why'd you make such an issue of it now?" he asked bitterly. "Why couldn't you just let it go?"

"Because John asked me to keep an eye on you. And because I'm a meddling old fool, I guess. Hunters keep plenty of secrets, but at least we can relax in our own homes. This kind of secret'll make you explode unless you share it with someone."

Right. So far, sharing it was just making him feel like shit. And if this got back to his father… "Please, Bobby, don't tell my dad."

"Tell him what?" Bobby asked, and Dean gave him a hesitant smile. "It's not my place, kid. When he comes back, you can decide what you want him to know. But I'll tell you this much. Your father's damn proud of you. I don't get the impression that he says it out loud to you too often, but he's said it to me more than once."

"If he knew…" Dean started, but Bobby cut him off.

"If he knew, he'd realize just how far his eldest was willing to go to protect his little brother." He paused for a minute, as if checking to make sure Dean had heard that, then added, "Your daddy's been to war, son, and so have I. And we all do things in combat that we'd never do if we had any other choice. It's called survival. And that's all you were doing. Surviving and making sure your brother did too."

"Maybe," he said, wanting desperately to believe him. He looked up, finally, and met Bobby's eyes. There was no censure there, no disgust. Just compassion.

"You did what you had to do, Dean. John expected you to take care of your brother, and that's what you did. Ain't no shame in that."

Bobby was offering him his own form of absolution, and he inclined his head, not wanting him to see the relief in his eyes. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby stood up, breaking the moment, then held out his hand for Dean to grasp as he pulled himself upright. "Don't thank me so fast. Tomorrow we're going down to the lumberyard. Been meaning to put up some bookshelves in my study, and it seems to me that you could use some more practice."

"Prob'ly right," he mumbled, feeling suddenly exhausted. "Wouldn't be surprised if Sammy needs to brush up his hammering skills too, y'know."

Bobby laughed. "Can't be any worse than you."

* * *

**Epilogue**

_**October 1995, Sturtevant, Wisconsin**_

They were waiting for him next to the Impala outside Racine Correctional Institute when he walked out the gate.

John looked the same as always: confident, strong, determined. Only the nervous hand he ran through his hair disclosed his anxiety. His face broke into a smile when he saw them, and Dean felt relief wash through him. Things could get back to normal now.

More or less.

When he got to the car, he reached first for Sam. Dean could tell his brother was a little stiff and uncomfortable with the hug, but John didn't seem to notice.

"You need a haircut, for God's sake, Sammy," he said, making a face of distaste. "Doesn't Bobby own a pair of clippers?"

"I like it long."

"He thinks it makes him look taller," Dean teased, trying to cover the awkward moment. "I'm gonna buy him platform shoes for Christmas."

"Shut _up_, Dean. I'm gonna buy you a cookbook."

"That's enough, boys. I haven't even been out for two minutes," John said, but his tone was amused. Then he turned to Dean, standing slightly behind Sam, and motioned him forward, enveloping him in a tight embrace.

He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of his father's arms envelope him. _Finally. _His father seemed thinner, and he realized that they were now nearly the same height.

"Six months," John said quietly, still holding him close. "Long time."

He felt his throat swelling, and when he spoke, his words came out a little choked. "Good to see you, Dad."

They climbed into the Impala, Dean riding shotgun, Sam in back. "Bobby tells me he's got you training on a crossbow," John said, as he backed out of the parking lot. "And fixing up a vintage Ford."

"Yes sir. And Sammy's learning Latin."

His father smiled. "Well, that's a real oversight on my part. Should've started teaching you both years ago… Jim Murphy's told me that often enough. And you should be learning it too."

"Not me," he said hastily. "Sammy's the bookworm in this family."

"_Both_ of you. You never know when you might need an exorcism. Don't argue, Dean," he said a little sharply, forestalling Dean's protests.

He sighed. Dad hadn't changed.

They were heading over to Blue Earth, now that Pastor Jim was back from Costa Rica, to "get their bearings" as John put it. Translation: find a hunt, choose a home base, enroll them in school.

Start over again.

"You look beat, kiddo."

He nodded. They'd been on the road since three in the morning. "It's an eight-hour drive from Bobby's. Wouldn't mind getting something to eat, though."

John let out a bitter laugh. "Anything but pasta."

"Burgers, then," he decided. "That good for you, Sammy?"

"Whatever." But he gave Dean a small smile when he looked back at him.

"Great," John said. "I'm starving."

The end.

**Author's Notes:**

The Beast of Bray Road is an urban legend that was first popularized in the early 1990s. The first newspaper article, "Tracking Down the Beast of Bray Road," was published in 1991 (just google it...). Another article, published in 1992, includes the quote used in Part Three from the witness who described being attacked in her car by the Beast.

The story was widely picked up by national media, and the Beast of Bray Road became the subject of several books and documentaries. The abandoned house where the boys stayed in the story was discovered by a local law agent, who noted the occult graffiti on the walls of the house.

The shunka warak'in, which John initially proposes as an explanation for the Beast, can be googled as well.

The Nahanni Valley in Canada, home of the waheela, is a real place, and its "Headless Valley" has been proposed as a possible location of the waheela.

Thanks for reading! And please leave some feedback :-).


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